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SANDEES' 

RHETORICAL, 


OR, 


UNION  SIXTH  READER 


EMBRACING    A    FULL    KXPOSITfON    OP   THB 


PRINCIPLES  OF  RHETORICAL   READING; 


RUMER0U8    SPECIMENS,    BOTH    IN    PROSE    AND    POETRY,    FROM   THE    bSBT 
WRITERS,    ENQUSH    AND    AMERICAN, 

AS    EXERCISES    FOR    PRACTICE; 


VORMINO    TOGETHER   A    BRIEF,    THOUGH    COHPRBHENSITE   COURSE    OIT 
INSTRUCTION   IN 

ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


(^ 


BY  CHARLES  W^  SANDERS,  A.M., 

AUTHOR  OF   "A   SERIES   OF   8CB00L  READERS,"   "  YODNQ   LADIES'   READER,"   " 
DEFINER,   AND   ANALYZER,"   "  ELOCDTIONARY   CHART,"   ETC. 


IVISON,  BLAKEMAN,  TAYLOR  &  CO., 

NEW    YOKK    AND    CHICAGO. 


JEDUCATION  DEPT. 

Entered  according;  to  Act  of  Congress,  b  the  year  1862.  by 
CHARLES  W.  SANDERS, 

IB  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  Southern  District  of 
New  Tork. 


PREFACE 


VlE>\  AD  merely  in  the  light  of  its  primary  purpose,  without 
refereuc  t  to  collateral  aims,  the  present  work  is  simply  a  com- 
prehens*  re  course  of  reading.  But  this  view  is  quite  inadequate, 
because  superficial.  It  is  like  examining  a  watch  without 
opening  the  case.     The  main  part  is  left  out  of  sight. 

A  bet Jer  view  may  be  gained  by  a  different  illustration ;  for, 
as  in  a  great  garden,  representing  all  the  products  of  the  earth, — 
where  art  works  with  nature  in  promotion  of  the  general 
design, — where  color,  form,  and  variety  unite  in  wooing  the 
sense  of  heauty, — where  every  noxious  growth  is  closely  watched 
and  carefully  excluded, — and  where,  in  addition  to  all  this,  a 
guide  is  at  hand  to  point  out  the  character  of  each  production, 
so  here,  in  the  compass  of  a  single  volume,  is  a  collection  of 
specimens  from  every  part  of  the  literary  world,  all  duly  arranged 
and  duly  explained,  and  all  shedding  the  selectest  moral  influence. 

liut,  to  enable  the  young  reader  better  to  appreciate  all  this 
variety  of  style  and  subject,  pertinent  collateral  instructions  and 
suggestions  are  provided  throughout.  These  reach  down  to  the 
very  elements  of  vocal  utterance.  They  reach  up  to  whatever, 
in  the  matter  of  reading,  can  either  be  taught  by  rules  or  illus- 
trated by  example. 

M193187  ''' 


It  preface. 

But  the  range  of*  tLe  work  is  wider  still.  The  book  is,  indeed, 
a  sort  of  History  of  Literature.  Here,  accordingly,  will  be 
found,  in  the  form  of  Notes,  numerous  original  sketches  of 
literary  character,  brief,  though  comprehensive,  as  the  space 
requires,  but  all  in  the  spirit  of  truth  and  fairness ;  while  longer 
sketches,  drawn  by  the  ablest  hands,  and  tracing  with  precisioD 
the  subtle  shades  of  literary  merit,  find  place,  as  well  they  may, 
among  the  Exercises  to  be  read  in  regular  course. 

These  sketches — even  the  best  of  them — are  not,  of  course, 
exhaustive.  They  mark  the  main  points,  however,  and  cannot 
fail — even  the  poorest  of  them — to  awaken  that  interest  which 
always  attends  the  perusal  of  a  piece  whose  author  is  known  to 
the  reader  by  something  more  than  the  mere  announcement  of 
his  name.  They  show  how,  as  in  the  case  of  Cowper,  labor 
imparts  a  finish  which  no  time  can  wear  off,  and  how,  as  in  the 
Bame  beautiful  example,  wit,  humor,  and  gayety  may  be  found 
in  close  alliance  with  all  that  is  pure  in  sentiment  and  refined 
in  language ;  how  worth,  in  spite  of  obstacles,  rises  slowly,  it 
may  be,  but  surely,  to  its  own  proper  level ;  how  the  walls  of  a 
prison,  as  in  the  case  of  Bunyan,  and  even  total  blindness,  as  in 
that  of  Milton,  seem  rather  to  quicken  than  to  hinder  the  free 
movements  of  genius  j  how  even  genius  itself,  however  tran- 
scendent, without  the  salutary  check  of  goodness,  is,  after  all, 
only  what  the  ignorant  deem  of  a  comet — a  mighty  messenger 
of  mischief;  and  how,  in  short,  opportunities,  the  best  and  the 
worst,  are  alike  unavailing,  if  the  disposition  be  wanting  to 
reacn  Tionorable  achievement. 

With  these  few  words  respecting  the  plan,  purpose,  matter, 
and  execution  of  the  work,  the  Union  Rhetorical  Reader 
is  respectfully  submitted  to  the  judgment  of  teachers 

Nkw  Touk,  Sept.  1862. 


CONTENTS. 


PART   FIRST. 
ELOCUTION. 

PAOl 

Section  I. — Artictjlatiok 13 

Elementary  Sounds  of  the  Letters 14 

Substitutes  for  the  Vowel  Elements 15 

Substitutes  for  the  Consonant  Elements 16 

Errors  in  Articulation 16 

Combinations  of  Consonants 17,  18 

Examples  to  illustrate  Indistinct  Articulation 19 

Miscellaneous  Examples 20 

Section  II. — Accent  and  Emphasis .21 

Examples  of  Primary  and  Secondary  Accent 21 

Examples  of  Intensive  Emphasis 22 

Examples  of  Absolute  Emphasis 23 

Examples  of  Antithetic  Emphasis 24 

Section  III. — Inflections 25 

Monotone 26 

Rising  and  Falling  Inflections 27 

Rules  for  the  use  of  Inflections     .     .     .     .     ',    .     .  28,  29,  30,  31,  32,  33 
The  Circumflex 34 

Section  IV. — Modulatiojt 35 

Pitch  of  Voice 36 

Quantity 37 

Rules  for  Quantity 38 

Quality 39 

Rules  for  Quality 40 

Notation  in  Modulation 41 

Examples  for  Exercise  in  Modulation 41,  42,  43,  44 

Section  V. — The  Rhetorical  Pause 45,  46 


PART   SECOND. 

EXERCISES  IN  RHETORICAL  READING. 

CZBRCISE  lAOE 

1.  The  Sky, John  Rcskin,     ...  47 

2.  The  Heavens  declare  the  Glory  of  God,        .     Addison, 51 

3.  Grace  preferable  to  Beauty, Oliver  Goldsmith,     .  53 

4.  Sandalphon — A  Legend, Longfellow,      ...  66 

5.  A  Dream  of  Summer, John  G.  Whittier,      .  58 

(6) 


VI  CONTENTS 

BZEBCI8I  PAOl 

6.  The  Angel  in  the  Thunderstorm,  ....  John  Wilson,     .     .  60 

7.  Roprecht  the  Robber, Abridged froviSovTBEY,  62 

8.  Scene  from  Hadad, James  A.  Hillhousb,  71 

9.  The  Proud  Miss  Macbride, John  G.  Saxe,   ...  76 

10.  The  Ettrick  Shepherd, Robert  Chambers,     .  83 

11.  Queen  Mary's  Landing, James  Hogg,      ...  87 

12.  Death  of  Mary  Queen  of  Scots,     ....  John  Lingard,  ...  92 
13    Toleration — An  Apologue,     ......  Jeremy  Taylor,    .     .  96 

14.  Address  to  the  Heavenly  Bodies,  ....  Henry  Ware,  Jr.,  .  97 

15.  The  Shepherd  and  the  Philosopher,  .    .    .  John  Qay,     ...  9S 

16.  The  Prodigal  Son— ^  Parable,      ....  Luke,  Chap,  xv.,    .  .  101 

17.  The  Vase  and  the  Pitcher, Jane  Taylor,    .     .  .  103 

18.  Cowper  the  Poet, Thomas  Campbell,  .  105 

19.  Passages  from  Cowper : — 

God  observed  in  Nature 108 

Love  of  Liberty 108 

Love  of  Country 108 

Wisdom  and  Knowledge 109 

The  true  Freeman 109 

Affectation  in  the  Pulpit 110 

The  Positive  Talker 110 

20.  The   Senate  of  Rome   and  the  American  1  t «^,»  ir««c,w,„™  ^^^ 

Congress, j  Louis  Kossuth,      .    .     Ill 

21.  The  Men  to  make  a  State, Geo.  W.  Doane,      .    .     112 

22.  The  Diver, \^From    the    Gef^an    of 

'                                                                I  Schiller  by  Bulwer,      116 

23.  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow,      ....  New  Am.  Cyclopaedia,     122 

24.  The  Song  of  Hiawatha, Longfellow,     .     .     .     123 

25.  Hiawatha's  Wooing, Longfellow,     . 

26.  The  Eleventh  Commandment — An  Anecdote,  Anon.,  .... 

27.  Without  Charity  all  Gifts  are  as  nothing,   .  1  Cor.  Chap,  xiii., 

28.  Sketch  of  Shakspeare, Samuel  Johnson, 

29.  Character  of  Hamlet, William  Hazlitt, 

30.  Scene  from  Hamlet, Shakspeare,     . 

31.  Scene  from  Hamlet  {continued),     ....  Shakspeare, 

32.  The  Fate  of  Macgregor, James  Hogo, 

33.  Charade  on  the  Name  of  Campbell  the  Poet,  W.  M,  Praed,    . 

34.  Charade  on  the  word  Blockhead,  .     .     .     .  W.  M.  Praed,    . 
Charade  on  Dr.  Barnard Samuel  Johnson, 


125 
130 
133 
134 
138 
140 
145 
150 
154 
155 
156 

35.  The  Spirit  of  British  Liberty, Sir  James  Mackintosh,  157 

-"    -  ------  -  jgg 

162 
167 
169 


36.  Letter  to  the  Duke  of  Bedford,     ....    JuniuS; 

37.  Men  of  One  Idea, J.  G.  Holland, 

38.  Imagination, Barry  Cornwall, 

39.  Sketch  of  Lord  Brougham, T.  Noon  Talfourd, 

4rt    T>     1     i    iu     T»     A       /•  T»i.M-  ^  Demoathenea,  translated 

40.  Reply  to  the  Party  of  Phihp, j      4^  lord  Brougham,  171 

41.  Ode  to  Rain, Samuel  T.  Coleridge,  175 

42.  Why  does  your  Hair  turn  White  ?      .     .     .     W.  Hunis,      ....  177 

43.  Epitaphs, 179 

On  the  Countess  of  Pembroke,  .     .     .     Ben  Jonson,  ....  180 

On  a  Lady  famed  for  her  Caprice,  .     .     Robert  Burns,  .     .     .  180 

On  Himself, S.  T.  Coleridge,     .     .  180 

Punning  Epitaph  on  Joseph  Blackett,     Byron, 181 

On  Samuel  Johnson, William  Cow?er,  .     .  181 

On  Charles  II., Rochester,   .     ,     .     .  182 

Sir  Isaac  Newtoti, Pope, 182 

A  Living  Author's  Epitaph,  ....     Cowley, 182 

On  a  Miser, Anonymous,  ....  183 


CONTENTS.  VII 

eXBRCISE  PAOa 

44.  Nothing  but  Leaves, Anonymous,  ...  183 

45.  The  Story  of  Le  Fevre, Sterne 184 

46.  Laugh  on,  Laugh  on,  to-day ! W.  M,  Praed,     ...  193 

47.  Hymn  of  Boyhood, A.  Cleveland  Coxe,  .  195 

48.  Spiritual  Freedom— What  is  it?    ....     Channino,      ....  199 

The  Present  Age, Channino,      ....  200 

49.  Speech  of  Lord  Mansfield  on  Privilege, 203 

60.  Sleep,  Mr.  Speaker ! W.  M.  Praed,     ...  205 

61.  Parental  Ode  to  my  Little  Son,     ....     Thomas  Hood,   ...  206 

62.  Song  of  the  Shirt, Thomas  Hood,    ...  203 

63.  Man's  Works  shall  follow  him,      ....     John  G.  Whittieb,     .  212 

64.  Resting-Placos  for  the  Dead  interesting  to  )  jyjj^g  g^^^y     ^    ^  213 

the  Living, J  »     •    •     • 

65.  The  Bell  at  Greenwood, .     Arthur  Morrell,  .     .  216 

66.  New  Year's  Eve, Charles  Lamb,  .     .     .  218 

67.  Ring  out  the  Old  Year, Tennyson,     ....  220 

68.  Passages  from  PoUok : — 

Friends, 22t 

The  Miser, 222 

Fame, 222 

Fate  of  Byron, 223 

The  Want  above  all  other  Wants, 223 

59.  The  Dead  Mother, Anonymous,  ....  224 

60.  Dirge, Charles  G.  Eastman,  226 

61.  Overthrow  of  Belshazzar, Barry  Cornwall,       .  227 

62.  Excerpts  from  the  Autocrat  of  the  Break- )  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes, 

fast  Table, J  228 

63.  Not  on  the  Battle-Field John  Pierpont,      .     .  232 

64.  Scene  from  the  Honey-Moon, John  Tobin,  ....  235 

65.  The  Lord  of  Burleigh, Tennyson,     ....  242 

66.  Last  Moments  of  Mozart, 246 

67.  Our  One  Life, Horatius  Bonar,  .     .  248 

fi8.  A  Rill  from  the  Town  Pump, Hawthorne,      ...  250 

69.  Sonnets:— 

Sonnet  ttpon  Sonnets, Wordsworth,    .    .    .  254 

On  his  own  Blindness Milton 254 

To  Milton, WoRDSV  jRth,     .     .     .  255 

To  Sleep, Wordsworth,    .    .    .  255 

The  Moon's  Mild  Ray, John  H.  Bryant,   .     .  256 

Upon  a  Primrose, John  Clare,-     .     .     .  256 

Sabbath  Morn, John  Leyden,     .     .     .  257 

Shakspeare, Hartley  Coleridge,  257 

On  Beauty, Shakspkare,      .     .     .  258 

Dwellings  of  the  Dead, Blackwood's  Magazine,258 

70.  Cicero  against  Mark  Antony Translated  by  BROVGnAM,2b9 

71.  Richard  the  Third  and  Macbeth,  ....     William  Hazlitt,       .  261 

72.  Scene  from  Macbeth, Shakspkare,     .    .    .  263 

73.  Scene  from  Richard  IIL, Shakspeare,     .     .     .  267 

74.  Richard  of  Gloster, John  G.  Saxe,   ...  268 

75.  Chateaubriand  and  Sir  Walter  Scott,      .     .     Alison, 271 

76.  No  Religion  without  Mysteries,     ....     Chateaubriand,     .     .  274 

^'^'  ^^Cav^aulf  ""^    ^°'^^'  ''"'^   *^^   ^*'^*'^°  }  ^'^  Walter  Scott,     .  276 

78.  Saladin  and  Malek  Adhel, New  Mon.  Magazine,  282 

79.  The  Life  of  a  Naturalist, John  James  Audubon,  288 

80.  The  Ministry  of  the  Doves, Susan  FenimoreCooper,290 

81.  The  Church  at  Belem,      .  .    .    .    .     T.  Noon  Talfourd,    .  292 


vrtil  CONTENTS. 

CXEBCI8B  PAGI 

82.  Short  Antithetical  Passages: — 

The  Spiritual  and  the  Natural,  ...  1  CoR.  Chap,  xv.,    .     .  294 

The  Bible  adapted  to  all, Mrs.  Sarah  S.  Ellis,  295 

Tact  versus  Talent, London  Atlas,  .    .     .  295 

RoUa  to  the  Peruvians, Sheridan,      ....  296 

Catiline's  Forces  in  Contrast  with  the  )  r>,^„„^  one 

Roman  Army, |  Cicero, 296 

Contrasts  in  Man, Young, 297 

The  true  Critic, Pope, 297 

Chivalry  and  Puritanism,       ....  BANCRaPT,      ....  298 

Homer  and  Virgil,    .......  Pope, 298 

83.  War  Song, Sir  Walter  Scott,     .  299 

84.  Hunting  Song, Sir  Walter  Scott,     .  801 

85.  Song  of  Peace, Cowper, 302 

86.  Sketch  of  Webster, E.  P.  Whipple,      .     .  303 

87.  Importance  of  the  Union, Webster, 307 

88.  Life  intended  to  be  Happy, L.  IL  Grindon,      .    .  309 

89.  The  American  Flag J.  Rodman  Drakb,      .  312 

90.  Words  from  Holy  Writ  :— 

Whence  cometh  Wisdom  ?      .     .    .     .  Job  xxviii.,    ....  314 

Confidence  in  God, Psalm  xxiii.,      .     .     .  314 

Maxims  and  Observations,     ....  Proverbs  xxvii.,    .     .  315 

Call  to  Faith  and  Repentance,   .     .     .  Isaiah  Iv,,     ....  315 

Deeds,  not  Words, Jeremiah  vii.,    .     .     .  315 

Seek  first  the  Kingdom  of  God,      .     .  Matthew  vi.,     .     .     .  316 

Duties  enjoined, Romans  xii.,  ....  316 

General  Exhortation, Philippians  iv.,      .     .  317 

The  Tongue  an  unruly  Member,     .     .  James  iii.,      ....  317 

i»l.  Coronation  of  Napoleon, Madame  Junot,      .     .  318 

92.  Sketch  of  Bonaparte, Charles  Phillips,      .  321 

93.  Eulogy  on  Franklin,  . Mirabeau,     ....  324 

94.  Trial  of  Baxter, James  Stephen,     .     .  325 

95.  Filial  Piety, Sheridan,      ....  328 

»»-^"'«-' {"'A^/^rv-LZ"  ?°'  io 

97.  The  Coral  Insect, Mrs.  Sigourney,    .     .  331 

98.  The  Aim  of  Don  Quixote, George  Ticknor,  .     .  333 

99.  Don  Quixote  and  Sancho  Panza,      .     .    .  Cervantes,   ....  336 

100.  The  Fatal  Charge, Chapman  and  Shirley,  339 

101.  The  Reign  of  Terror, Macaulay,    ....  346 

102.  Ultimate  Triumph  of  Public  Opinion,  .     .  Webster, 348 

'^^'  ^Dilemmr.  ^]'^^'''^'-^'\  Pickwick's  |  ^^^^^^^  j^^^^^^^^      ^  3^9 

104.  Another^Sc^n^^  P*ickwick,^Sam  Well  |  ^^^^^^^  ^^^^^^^^      ^  35^ 

105.  The  F  :nd  Boy's  Speech, Park  Benjamin,     .     .  358 

106.  Duty  ^>f  the  Governnaent  in  the  Present)  q^^_  j^   Prentice,      .  360 

107.  Lip  5S  on  a  Skeleton, Anonymous,  ....  364 

108.  Sketch  of  Wordsworth, Chambers,     ....  365 

109.  Intimations  of  Immortality, Wordsworth,    .     .     .  367 

110.  Prospects  of  the  Republic, Edward  Everett,      .  370 

111.  The  Widow  and  her  Son, Washington  Irving,  .  372 

112.  Eulogy  on  Washington, Francis  C.  Gray,  .     .  377 

113.  Washington's  Solicitude  for  the  Union,     .  Webster 379 

114    The  Mill, M.  Elva  Wood,     .    .  382 

U'^    Hfigar  in  the  Wilderness, N.  P.  Willis,  .       .     .  384 

Sketch  of  Samuel  Johnson, Thos.  B.  Shaw,      .    .  388 


CONTENTS.  IZ 

CXERCI8B  PAGB 

117.  Letter  to  Lord  Chesterfield, Samoel  Johnsoh,  .     .  392 

118.  Portrait  of  James  Boswell, Macadlay,    ....  394 

119.  Passages  from  Boswell's  Life  of  Johnson, .  397 

120.  The  Mocking  Bird, Thomas  Nuttall,  .     .  400 

J 21.  Scene  from  the  Lady  of  the  Lake,   .     .     .     Sir  Walter  Scott,     .  402 

122.  The  Borrowed  Umbrella, Douglas  Jerrold,      .  415 

123.  Sketch  of  Addison, New  Am.  Cyclopedia,  418 

124.  Discretion,  not  Cunning Addison, 420 

125.  Moore  as  a  Poet, Robert  Chambers,     .  423 

126.  Specimens  from  Thomas  Moore : — 

The  Meeting  of  the  Waters, 424 

There's  nothing  true  but  Heaven, 425 

The  Lake  of  the  Dismal  Swamp, .426 

127.  Trial  and  Execution  of  Charles  L,  .     .     .     Hume, 428 

128.  Passages  from  Campbell's  "  Pleasures  of  Hope :" — 

Hope  Kindled  by  Distant  Objects, 432 

Hope  Lingered  when  all  else  had  Fled, 433 

Hope  animates  the  Hero, 433 

Hope  invoked  to  cheer  the  Home  of  Poverty, 433 

Hope,  the  Mother's  Inspiration, 434 

Hope  soothes  even  the  poor  Maniac, 435 

Hope  gives  Pledge  of  Progress, 435 

No  Hope  of  Happiness  without  Woman, .  435 

Life  without  Christian  Hope, 436 

Hope  the  sole  solace  in  the  Dying  Hour, 436 

Hope  of  future  Happiness  inspiring,       437 

Hope  Eternal, 437 

129.  Cooper  the  American  Novelist,     ....     RuFUS  W.  Griswold,  438 

130.  Escape  of  the  Frigate, J.  Frnimore  Cooper,  440 

131.  Escape  of  the  Frigate  (continued),   ...     J.  Fenimore  Cooper,  446 

132.  Thanatopsis, Wm.  Cullen  Bryant,  452 

133.  Christian  in  Doubting  Castle,       ....     John  Bunyan,    .     .     .  455 

134.  Cato's  Soliloquy, Addison, 460 

135.  Passages  from  Burns  : — 

The  Wish  for  Manhood, 462 

Pleasures  Evanescent,       462 

Money  not  to  minister  to  Pride  or  Avarice, 463 

A  noble  Anchor  in  the  Tempest  of  Life, 463 

The  Rich  and  Great  not  all  truly  blest, 463 

The  Els  we  make  for  Ourselves  and  for  Others, 464 

Judge  not  thy  Brother, 464 

Grace  before  Dinner, 464 

136.  Piety  and  Virtue  Distinguished,  ....     Young, 46a 

137.  Dante  and  Milton  compared, Macaiilat,    ....  467 

138.  Satan's  Address  to  the  Sun, Milton, 469 

139    Scene  of  the  French  Revolution,      .     .     .     Felicia  HemanSj    .     .  471 

140.  Heart  and  Head Susan  Fenimore  C30PER,474 

141.  Ode  on  the  Passions, William  Collins,  .     .  476 

142.  Burke  and  Chatham, William  Hazlitt,       .  480 

143.  The  Invasion  of  the  Carnatic,      ....     Edmund  Burke,      .     .  482 

144.  The  War  in  America, Lord  Chatham,      .     .  484 

145.  Speech  on  the  Overtures  of  Bonaparte,     .     Charles  James  Fox,  487 

146.  The  Battle  of  Blenheim,     .'.....     Southey, 489 

147.  Elegy  written  in  a  Country  Churchyard,  .     Thomas  Gray,   .     .     .  492 

148.  Parallel  between  Pope  and  Dryden,      .     .     Samuel  Johnson,   .     .  49? 

149.  Alexander's  Royal  Feast, Dryden, 50* 

150.  Messiah's  Coming, Pope, 504 

151.  Washington  Irving  as  a  Writer,  ....     New  Am.  Cyclopaedia,  607 

1*  5  R 


Z  CONTENTS. 

EXERCISX  PAfll 

152.  Tea-Parties  in  Old  Times, Washington  Iryinci,  .  508 

153.  Quarrel  Scene  between  Brutus  and  Cassiua,    Shakspeare,      .     .     .  511 

154.  Dream  of  an  Opium  Eater, De  Quincey,       .     .     .  515 

155.  Marco  Bozzaris, Halleck,       ....  517 

156.  Address  to  the  Bristol  Volunteers,   .     .    .     Robert  Hall,   .    .     .  519 

157.  Wonderful  Contrast, Bancroft,      ....  520 

158.  The  Story  of  Lavinia, Thomson, 523 

159.  Apostrophe  to  the  Ocean, Byron, 526 

160.  Sketch  of  Byron, Macaulay,    ....  528 

161.  "  Life  Thoughts"  from  Beecher: — 

The  object  of  Training, 532 

A  Blessed  Bankruptcy,      ...          533 

Work,  not  Worry, 633 

Christian  Man's  Life, 534 

Ugly  kind  of  Forgiveness, 534 

A  Noble  Man, 534 

The  Severest  Test  of  Friendship, 534 

True  way  of  looking  at  a  Gift, 535 

Scriptural  Sobriety, 535 

Home, 535 

162.  Epithalamium, Jo^N  6.  C.  Brainard,  536 

163.  Serenade, James  G.  Percival,   .  537 

164.  Pictures  of  Memory, Alice  Cary,  ....  640 

165.  The  UU  of  Life, Phcebe  Gary,     ...  541 

166.  Outward  Bound, Emily  C.  Judson,  .     .  543 

167.  Days  that  are  Gone, Charles  Mackay,      .  546 

168.  The  Irish  not  Aliens, Richard  Lalor  Sheil,  548 

169.  Passages  from  Akenside  : — 

Beauty  the  Ministrcss  of  Truth  and  Good, 551 

Moral  Sublimity, 552 

Nature's  Charms  open  to  all, 552 

Apostrophe  to  his  Birthplace, 553 

170.  The  Raven, Edgar  A.  Poe,  ...  554 

171.  Fine  Retort, William  Wirt,  ...  659 

172.  The  Declaration  of  Independence,  .     .    .     John  Quincy  Adams,  .  561 

173.  Last  Words  of  John  Quincy  Adams,     .     .     William  H.  Seward,  562 

174.  God  and  Heaven, Anonymous,  ....  663 

175.  Each  and  All, Ralph  Waldo  Emerson,  564 

176.  Parting  of  Hector  and  Andromache,    .    .     Homer, 566 

177.  Farewell  to  the  Senate, Henry  Clay,     ...  571 

178.  The  Midnight  Sun, Bayard  Taylor,    .     .  674 

179.  Opening  Stanzas  of  the  Minstrel,     .     .     .     Beattie, 575 

180.  The  Blessing  of  Peace, Charles  Sfmner,  .     .  577 

181.  Passages  from  Bishop  Heber:— r 

Pictures  of  Palestine, 578 

The  Lilies  and  the  Birds, 579 

Ihe  Moonlight  March, 580 

182.  Spartacus  to  the  Gladiators, E.  Kellogg,  ....  681 

183.  The  Drowned  Mariner, Elizabeth  Oakes  Smith,583 

184.  Passages  from  Crabbe  : — 

Portrait  of  a  Peasant, 586 

Gradual  approaches  of  Age,        688 

185.  True  Love, Harriet  Martineau,  689 

186.  0,  had  I  the  Wings, J.  G.  Percival,      .     .  691 

187.  Gesler  and  William  Tell, J.  Sheridan  Knowles,  593 

188.  Cupid's  Adventure, Anacreon,      ....  695 

189.  God  everywhere, Hugh  Hdtton,          .     .  597 

190.  Fossil  Poetry, Trench, 599 


ALPHABETICAL  LIST  OF  AUTHORS. 


PAQB 

Adams,  John  QcifrcT,  .  .  .  660 
Addison,  Joseph,    .    .     61,  420,  460 

Akenside,  Mark, 661 

Alison,  Archibald,    ....    271 

Anaoreon, 595 

Anonymous,      130,    183,    224,  364, 

563 

Audubon,  John  Jamhs,    .    .    .    288 

Bancroft,  George,    .    .      298,  620 

Beattie,  James, 676 

Beecher,  Henry  Ward,     .    .    632 

Benjamin,  Park, 358 

»     Bible,  101, 133,  294,  314,  315,  316,  317 
bonar,  horatius,       ....    248 

Boswell,  James, 397 

Brainard,  John  G.  C,  .  .  .  536 
Brougham,  Lord,  .    .    .      171,  259 

Bryant,  J.  H., 256 

Bryant,  W.  C,  .     .     .     .      382,  452 

BuLWER,  E.  G., 115 

BuNYAN,  John, 455 

Burns,  Robert,  .  .  ,  180,  462 
BuRKE,  Edmund,  .'....  482 
Byron,  Lord,     ....      181,  526 

Campbell,  Thomas,  .  .  105,  432 
Gary,  Alice,      ......     540 

Gary,  Phcebe, 641 

Cervantes,  Miguel^  .  .  .  336 
Chambers,  Robert,  .  83,  365,  423 
Channing,  W.  E.,    .     .  199,  iOO 

Chapman,  George,      ....     339 

Chateaubriand, 274 

Chatham, 484 


Cicero,  Marcus  Tullius,    259,  296 

Clare,  John, 256 

Clay,  Henry, 671 

Coleridge,  Hartley,  .  .  .  257 
Coleridge,  Samuel  Taylor,  174, 180 
Collins,  William,  .  ...  476 
Cooper,  J.  Fenimore,  .  440,  446 
Cooper,  Susan  Fenimore,    289,  474 

Cowley, 182 

CowPER,  William,  .  108,  181,  302 
CoxE,  A,  Cleveland,  .  .  .  195 
Crabbe,  George,  .  .  .  586,  588 
Cyclopedia,  New  American, 

122,  418,  507 

Demosthenes, 171 

Doane,  Geo.  W.,  .  .  .  .  112 
Drake,  Joseph  Eodman,  .    312 

Dickens,  Charles,     .    .      349,  364 

Dryden,  John, 600 

De  Quincey, 615 

Eastman,  Charles  G.,    .    .     .  226 

Ellis,  Mrs.  Sarah  S.,    .    .    .  295 

Emerson,  Ralph  Waldo,    .    .  564 

Everett,  Edward,     ....  370 

Fanshawe,  Miss, 829 

Fox,  Charles  James,  ....    487 

Gay,  John, 98 

Goldsmith,  Oliver,      .'    .     .     .  52 

Gray,  Francis  C, 377 

Gray,  Thomas, 492 

Grindox,  L.  H., 309 

Griswold,  Eufus  W.,  ....  438 

(11) 


Xll 


ALPHABETICAL     LIST     Uf     AETHORS. 


PAOE 

Hall,  Robert, 619 

Halleck,  Fitz-Qreenb,  .  ,  617 
Hawthorhe,  Nathaniel,  .  .  250 
Hazlitt,  William,     .   138,  281,  480 

IIeber,  Bishop, 578 

llEMANn,  Felicia, 471 

HiLLBO'JSE,  James  A.,    .    .    .      70 

Hogg,  James, 87,  150 

HtLMB'j,  Oliver  Wendell,     .    228 

Homer, 566 

Hood,  Thomas, 206,  208 

Hume,  David, 428 

HuNis,  W., 177 

Holland,  J.  G., 162 

Irving,  Washington,    .     .     .  372,  508 

Jerrold,  Douglas,    ....    415 

Johnson,  Samuel,  134, 156, 179,  392, 

497 

JoNSON,  Ben, 180 

JuDSON,  Emilt  C, 543 

Junot,  Madame,  .  .  .  .  .  318 
Junius, 158 

Kellogo,  E. 581 

Knowles,  J.  Sheridan,  .  .  .  593 
Kossuth,  Ljuis, Ill 

Lamt),  C'i^RLKS, 218 

Leydi:n,  John, 257 

LiNGATiD,  John,  ......      91 

Longfellow,  Henry  W.,  56, 123, 125 
London  Atlas, 295 

Macaulat,  .  .  345,  394,  467,  528 
Mackay,  Charles,     ....     546 

Mackintosh, 157 

Magazine,  Blackwood's,  .  .  258 
Magazine,  New  Monthly,      .    282 

Mansfield,  Lord, 203 

Martineau,  Harriet,  .  .  .  589 
Milton,  John,    ....      254,  469 

MlUABEAU, 324 

Moore,  Thomas, 424 


Nuttall,  Thomas, 

Percival,  J.  G.,     , 
Phillips,  Chas.,    , 


400 


537.  591 
,    .     321 


paob 

Pierpont,  John, 232 

PoE,  Edgar  A., 554 

POLLOK, 221 

Pope,  Alex.,  182,  297,  298;  504,  566 
Praed,  W.  M.,  .  154,  155,  193,  205 
Prentice,  Geo.  D.,  ....  360 
Procter, 167,  227 

ROCHESTEB, 182 

RusKiN,  John, 47 

Saxe,  John  G., 75,  268 

Schiller,  Johann  Fred.,  .  .  115 
Scott,  Sir  Walter,  276,  299,  301,  402 

Seward,  W.  XL, 562 

Shakspeare,  140,  145,  258,  263,  267, 
511 

Shaw,  Thos.  B., 388 

Sheil,  Richard  Lalor,  .  .  .  548 
Sheridan,  R.  B.,    .     .    .      296,  328 

Shirley,  James, 339 

Smith,  E.  Oakes, 583 

SiGOURNEY,  LyDIA  II.,      .      .      .      331 

Southey,  Robert,  ....  62,  489 
Sterne,  Latoence,     ....     184 

Stephen,  James, 325 

Story,  Judge, 213 

Sumner,  Charles,      ....     577 

Talfourd,  T.  Noon,   .    .      169,  292 

Taylor,  Bayard, 574 

Taylor,  Jane,   ....      103,  330 

Taylor,  Jeremy, 96 

Tennyson,  Alfred,    .    .      220,  242 

Thomson,  James, 523 

TiCKNOR,  George, 333 

Tobin,  John, 234 

Trench,  Richai^d  Chevenix,  .    599 

Ware,  Jr.,  Henry,  ....  97 
Webster,  Daniel,      .  307,  348,  379 

Whipple,  E.  P., 303 

Whittier,  J.  G.,  ^  .  .  .  .  68,  212 
Willis,  N.  P.,     ."'r*".  "  .     .     .     383 

Wilson,  John, 60 

Wirt,  William, 659 

Wordsworth,  William,  254  255,367 

Young, 297,  465 


SANDERS' 

RHETORICAL    READER. 


PART    FIRST. 
ELOCUTION. 


Elocution  is  the  art  of  delivering  written  or  extempo 
raneous  composition  with  force,  propriety,  and  ease. 

It  deals,  therefore,  with  words,  not  only  as  individuals,  but  as 
members  of  a  sentence,  and  parts  of  a  connected  discourse : 
including  every  thing  necessary  to  the  just  expression  of  the 
sense.  Accordingly,  it  demands,  in  a  special  manner,  attention 
to  the  following  particulars ;  viz..  Articulation,  Accent, 
Emphasis,  Inflection,  Modulation,  and  Pauses. 


SECTION  L 
articulation. 

Articulation  is  the  art  of  uttering  distinctly  and 
justly  the  letters  and  syllables  constituting  a  word. 

It  deals,  therefore,  with  the  elements  of  words,  just  as  elocu- 
tion deals  with  the  elements  of  sentences :  the  one  securing  the 
true  enunciation  of  each  letter,  or  combination  of  letters,  the 
other  giving  to  each  word,  or  combination  of  words,  such  a 
delivery  as  best  expresses  the  meaning  of  the  author.  It  is  the 
basis  of  all  good  reading,  and  should  be  carefully  practiced  by 
the  learner. 

(18\ 


14 


.8;A_N  DELS'     UNION    SERIES. 


ELEMENTARY  SOUNDS  OF  THE  LETTERS. 


\OWEL   SOUNDS. 


TONICS 


EkmeuL 

Power, 

1  -»A 

as  in 

Jpe. 

2.— *A 

(( 

^rm. 

3— 'A 

(( 

^11. 

4.— *A 

« 

At. 

5.— »A 

« 

Care. 

6.— 'A 

(( 

^sk. 

7.— ^E 

« 

Eve. 

8.— »E 

(( 

End. 

9.— 'I 

(i 

Ice. 

10.— «I 

<( 

It. 

11.— iQ 

« 

Old. 

12.— «0 

(( 

Do. 

13.— »0 

(( 

Ox. 

14.— ^U 

« 

Use. 

15.— '^U 

« 

Up. 

16.— »U 

u 

Pull. 

17.— 01 

u 

Oil 

18.— OU 

u 

Out. 

CONSONANT    SOUNDS. 
SUB-TONICS. 

19.— B  as  in  Bat. 


20.— D 


Z>un. 


SUB-TONICS 

Element. 

Power 

21.— a* 

as  in 

Gun. 

22.— J 

'' 

Jet 

23.— L 

(( 

Let 

24.— M 

11 

ilTan. 

25.— N 

u 

Not 

26.— R 

it 

Run. 

27.— V 

(( 

Vent 

28.— W 

(( 

TTent. 

29.— Y 

(( 

Tea. 

30.— »Z 

u 

Zeal. 

31.— ''Z 

(( 

A2;ure 

32.— NG 

(i 

Shig. 

33.— TH 

a 

7%j. 

A-TONICS. 

34.— F 

as  in 

Fit 

35.— 11 

ii 

Hat 

36.— K 

u 

Kid. 

37.— P 

It 

Pit 

38.— S 

tt 

Sin. 

39.— T 

tt 

Top. 

40.— CH 

ii 

OAat. 

41.— SH 

11 

Shun. 

42.— TH 

li 

Thin. 

43.— WHt 

11 

When 

*  Soft  G  is  equivalent  to  J ;  Soft  C  to  S,  and  hard  C  and  Q  to  K.  X 
U  equivalent"  to  K  and  S,  as  in  box,  or  to  G  and  Z,  as  in  exalt. 

•)•  WH  is  pronounced  as  if  the  H  preceded  W,  otherwise  it  would  b« 
pronounced  W-hen.  R  should  be  slightly  trilled  before  a  vowel.  For 
further  instructions,  see  Sanders  and  Merrill's  Elementary  and  Eloca 
tionary  Chart. 


RHETORICAL    READER. 


15 


SUBSTITUTES  FOR  THE  VOWEL  ELEMENTS. 


'  ai  as  in  eafl. 


For  Long  A. 


Y  )\  Flat  A. 


For  Broad  A. 


au 

" 

gawge 

ay 

" 

lay. 

ea 

<< 

great. 

ei 

(( 

deign. 

ey 

(( 

they. 

au 

ea 
ua 


For  Short  A, 


■  { 


For  Intermedi- 
ate A. 


For  Long  E. 


Vor  Short  E 


For  Long  1 


ay 
ea 
iei 
eo 
ie 
ue 

L« 

ai 
ei 

«y 

ie 

]oi 

ui 

uy 


dawnt. 
heart, 
guard. 


au  "  pat/se. 

aw  "  law. 

eo  *  George. 

oa  ♦•  groat. 

0  ♦'  horn. 

SOMght. 


"  plajd. 

'♦  gwaranty. 

"  haj'r. 

"  bear. 

"  where. 

"  their. 

**  weak. 

'*  seize. 

"  people. 

*'  key. 

**  bn'ef. 

"  ptque. 

♦♦  any. 

**  said. 

*♦  says. 

**  dead. 

"  he/fer. 

•♦  leopard 

**  friend. 

**  gwess. 

'*  bwry. 

"  aisle. 

"  sletght. 

"  eye. 

"  die. 

"  choir. 

**  guide. 

"  huy. 

"  try. 


For  Short  I.    ■ 


For  Long  0. 


e  as  in  ^ng'ish. 

ee 

ie 

0 

u 
ui 

\.y 

au 

eau 

eo 

ew 

oa 

oe 

ou 

ow 


For  Long  f 

Slender  0.   t 


For  Short 


For  Long  U.    -{ 


For  Short  U. 


For  Short 
Slender  U. 

For  the  Diph- 
thong 01. 


{a  " 
ou  " 
ow    " 


eau 

eu 

ew 

ieu 

lew 

ou 

ue 

ui 

e 
i 

oe 

0 


\  ou 
}oy 


been. 

sieve. 

women. 

busy. 

build. 

symbol. 

hautboy 

beau. 

yeoman 

sew. 

ho  at. 

hoe. 

soul. 

Q.OW. 

shoe. 
soup. 

was. 

hough. 

knouledge 

beauty 

feud 

deu7. 

adieu. 

\iew. 

your. 

cue. 

Buii. 

her. 

sir. 

does. 

love. 

youtg. 

wolf, 
would. 

joy. 


For  the  Diph-  1 

thong  OU.    i'""         ^^"'- 

There  is  no  pure  Triphthong al 
sound  in  the  language.  Buoy  ia 
equivalent  to  bwoy.  U  being  a 
consonant. 


16 


SANDERS'    UNION     SERIES. 


SUBSTITUTES  FOR  THE  CONSONANT  ELEMENTS. 


f  gh  as  in  lau^A. 


»Z 


2Z. 


NG. 


SH. 


CH. 


\' 

*     8iifl5ce. 

s         ' 

'     was. 

X 

'     Xerxes. 

'  s 

'     treasure 

z 

'     azure. 

si 

*     fus/on 

zi 

'     gla2ier 

n 

'     conch. 

{ce 

'     ocean. 

ci 

*     social. 

ch 

*     c/niise. 

si 

'     peuseon* 

s 

'     3ure. 

ss 

'     issue. 

Vti 

'     notion. 

ti 

'     fusiian. 

B.  0,  G,  II,  L,  M,  N,  P,  and  R,  have  no  substitutes. 


The  most  common  faults  in  Articulation  are 


I.   The  suppression  of  a  syllable  ;  a« 


cab'n 

cap'n 

barr'l 

ev'ry 

hist'ry 

reg'lar 

several 

rhet'ric 


for       cab-m. 
cap-<am. 
bar-rfil. 
ev-e-ry. 
liis-to-ry. 
reg-?i-lar. 
sev-er-al. 
rhet-o-ric. 


mem'ry     . 

jub'lee 

trav'ler 

fam'ly 

veat'late 

des'late 

prob'ble 

par-tio'lar 


for 


inem-o-ry. 

ju-bt-lee. 

trav-el-er. 

fam-i-ly. 

ven  ti-late. 

des-o-lat«. 

prob-a-ble. 

par-tic-w-lar. 


II.   The  omission  of  any  sound  properly  belonging  to  a 
tvord;  as. 


read-in           for        read-in^. 

pr'-tect 

for 

pro-tect. 

8wif-ly            ' 

'         swifMy. 

b'-low 

be-low. 

cjin-mans       ' 

*         com-manrfs. 

p'r-vade 

per-vade. 

wam-er           ' 

'         warm-er. 

srink-in 

sArink-in^. 

um-Me           ' 

'         Aum-ble. 

th'if-ty 

tlirif-ty. 

ap-py 

Aap-py. 

as-ter-is 

as-ter-isA. 

con-sis            ' 

*         con-sis?8. 

gov-er-ment 

gov-erw-mcnt 

Pa-t'l 

*         fa-tal. 

Feb-u-ary 

Feb-ru-a-ry. 

RHETORICAL    READER.  17 

III.    The  substitution  of  one  sound  for  another;  as, 


Mf-ford 

for 

af-ford. 

mod-ist 

for  mod-est. 

wil-ler 

Wil-10M7. 

wp-prove 

"   ap-prove 

80Ck-2t 

sock-et. 

win-e-gar 

"   vin-e-gar. 

fear-lwss 

fear-kss. 

sep-e-rate 

"    sep-a-rate. 

cul-ter 

cult-wre. 

tem-per-it 

"    tem-per-ate. 

prod-ux 

prod-uf^s. 

croc-er-dile 

"    croc-o-dile. 

judg-mMnt 

judg-ment. 

twb-ac-cwr 

"   to-bac-co. 

?hiJ-drm 

chil-dren. 

com-prMm-ise 

"    com-pro-mise 

IV.  Produce  the  sounds  denoted  by  the  following  com- 
binations of  consonants : — 

Let  the  pupil  first  produce  the  sounds  of  the  letters,  and  theD 
the  word  or  words  in  which  they  occur.  Be  careful  to  give  a 
clear  and  distinct  enunciation  to  every  letter. 

1.  Bd^  as  in  rob'd;  hdst,  iprob'dst;  bl,  Wand,  Sible;  bid,  hum 

Wd;  bldst,  troubl'dst;  blst,  tronbl'st;  biz,  crumbles;  br^ 
6rand;  bz,  ribs. 

2.  Ch,  as  in  church  ;  cht,  fetcA'cZ. 

3.  Dj,  as  in  edge)  djd,  hedg'd;  dl,  bridle ',  did,  r'lddVd;  dlst, 

handl'st;  dlz,hundles;  c?w,  harc?'n;  dr,droYe',  dth,  width; 
dths,  hreadths ;  dz,  odds. 

4.  Fl,  as  in^amej  Jtd,  rijl'd;  fist,  stifl'st;  fiz,  rifles;  fr,from] 

fs,  quajfs,  \siU(/hs;  fst,  \siugk st,  quaff' st;  ft,  raft ;  fts,  wafts; 
ftsf,  graft'st. 

5.  Gd,  as  in  hegfd;  gdst,  hragg'dst;  gl,  glide)  gld,  struggled; 

gldst,  ha,ggl'dst ;  gist,  strangl'st ;  glz,  mingles ;  gr,  grove ; 
gst,  hegg'st ;  gz,  ^gs. 

6.  Kl,  as  in  uncle,  axdde ;  kid,  trickl'd ;  kldst,  truekl'dst;  Msi, 

chucA:/'s^;  klz,  wrinkles;  kn,  \>\a.ck'n;  knd,  reck'n'd; 
kndst,  reck'n'dst;  knst,  hlsick'n'st ;  knz,  reck'ns  ;  kr,  crank  j 
ks,  checks;  kt,  a.ct. 

7.  Lb,  as   in  hulb ;    Ibd,   hulb'd;   lbs,   hulbs ;    Ich,  %.lch ;   Icht^ 

helch'd ;  Id,  hold ;  Idst,  fold'st ;  Idz,  holds ;  If  self  •  Ifs^ 
gulfs;  IJ,  bu/r/e;  Ik,  elk;  Iks,  silks;  Ikt,  milk'd;  Ikts^ 
mulcts;   Im,  elm;    Imd,  whelm' d ;   Imz,  fi/ms;  In,  hlVn; 


18  SANDERS'    UNION     SERIES. 

Ip,  help;  Ips,  scdilps;  Ipst,  help'st;  Is,  fa?ie;  ht,  oaU'stf 
It,  melt;  Ith,  health;  Iths,  stealths;  Its,  colts;  Iv,  delve \ 
Ivd,  shelv'd;  Ivz,  elves ;  Iz,  lia//s. 

8.  Md,  as  in  doom'c?;  mf,  triumph;  mp,  hemp;  mpt,  tempt f 

mpts,  attempts;  mst,  entomb' st;  mz,  tombs. 

9.  Nch,  as  in  heiich;    ncht,  ^inch'd;    nd,  and;    ndst,  end'st; 

ndz,  ends;  ng,  sung;  ngd,  hang'd;  ngth,  length;  ngZj 
songs;  nj,  range;  njd,rang'd;  nk,ink;  nks,  ranks;  nkst^ 
thank* St;  nst,  winc'd;  nt,  sent;  nts,  rents;  nist,  yfent'st; 
nz,  runs. 

JO.  PI,  as  in  plume;  pld,  r'uppl'd;  plst,  ri^pVst;  plz,  aipples; 
pr,  jprince ;  ps,  sips  ;  pst,  raipp'st ;  pt,  ripp'c?. 

11.  Rb,  as   in  herb;  rch,  search;  rcht,  church' d;  rbd,  orb'd, 

rbdst,  harb'dst ;  rbst,  disturb' st ;  rbz,  orbs  ;  rd,  hard  ;  rdst, 
heard' St ;  rdz,  vfords ;  rf,  turf;  rft,  scarf  d ;  rg,  hurg  ; 
rgz,  hurgs;  rj,  dirge;  rjd,  urg'd;  rk,  ark;  rks,  arks; 
rkst,  yfork'st;  rkt,  dirk'd;  rktst,  emhark'dst ;  rl,  girl; 
rid,  world;  rldst,  hurld'st;  rlst,  whir^s^;  7-lz,  hurls;  rm, 
arm;  rmd,  arm'd;  rmdst,  harm'dst;  rmst,  arm'st;  rmz, 
charms;  rn,  turn;  rnd,  turn'd;  rndst,  earn'dst;  mst, 
learn' st;  mz,  urns;  rp,  carp;  rps,  harjjs ;  rpt,  warp'd; 
rs,  verse;  rsh,  harsh;  rst,  ^rst;  rsts,  hursts;  rt,  dart;  rth, 
earth;  rths,  hirths;  rts,  marts;  rtst,  dart'st;  rv,  curve; 
rvd,  nerv'd;  rvdst,  curv'dst;  rvst,  swerv'st;  rvz,  nerves; 
rz,  errs. 

12.  Sh,  as  in  shiip;  sht,  hush'd;  sk,  scan,  s^ip;  sks,  tusks;  sksf, 
frisk' st;  skt,  risk'd;  si,  slow;  sld,  nestl'd;  slz,  wrestles; 
sm,  smile ;  sn,  snag ;  sp,  sport ;  sps,  lisps  ;  spt,  clasp' d  ;  st, 
stag;  sir,  strike;  sts,  rests;  sw,  string. 

13.  7%,  as  in  thine,  thin;  thd,  hreath'd;  thr,  three;  thst, 
hreath'st;  thw,  thwack;  thz,  writhes;  tl,  title;  tld,settVd; 
tldst,  settl'dst;  tlst,  settCst;  tlz,  nettles;  tr,  trunk y  ts,  fiis; 
tw,  twirl. 

14.  Vd,  as  in  curv'd;  vdst,  liv' dst;  vl,  driv'l ;  vld,  g^-^v'Vd] 
vldst,  grov' Vdst;  vlsi,  driv' I' st;  vn,  driv'n ;  vst,  lij'Ui 
vz,  lives. 

15.  Wh,  as  in  when,  where. 

16  Zd,  as  in  mus'd;  zl,  dazzle  ;  zld,  muzzl'd;  zldst,  dazzVdsi, 
zlst,  dazzl'st ;  zlz,  vnuzzles ;  zm,  spasm  ;  zmz,  chasms ;  zn 
ns'w ;  znd,  reas'n'd;  znz,  ^ris' nz;  zndst,  impris' ?tWs^. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  19 

V.  Avoid  blending  the  termination  of  one  "w^i-d  '^ith 
the  beginning  of  another,  or  suppressing  the  fiD'jtl  letter 
or  letters  of  one  word,  when  the  next  word  commencea 
with  a  similar  sound. 

EXAMPLES. 

His  smal  eyes  instead  of  His  small  lies. 

Bhe  keeps  pies  '*  She  keeps  spied. 

Ilis  hour  is  up  "  His  sour  is  sup. 

Dry  the  widow's  tears  "  Dry  the  widow  steers. 

Your  ejes  and  ears  "  Your  rise  sand  dears. 

He  had  two  small  eggs  **  He  had  two  small  legs. 

Bring  some  ice  cream  **  Bring  some  mice  scream 

Let  all  men  praise  Him  •'  Let  tall  men  pray  sim. 

He  was  killed  in  war  **  He  was  skilled  in  war. 

Water,  air,  and  earth  "  Water  rare  rand  dearth. 

Come  and  see  me  once  more  ♦♦  Come  mand  see  me  one  smore. 


Note. — By  an  indistinct  Articulation  the  sense  of  a  passage 
is  often  liable  to  be  perverted. 


1.  Will  he  attempt  to  conceal  hw  acts  f 
Will  he  attempt  to  conceal  hi*  sacks  f 

2.  The  man  ha<f  oars  to  row  her  over. 
The  man  hatf  rfoors  to  row  her  rover. 

3.  Can  there  be  an  aim  more  lofty  ? 
Can  there  be  a  name  more  lofty  ? 

4.  The  judge«  ought  to  arrest  the  culprits. 
The  judge*  sought  to  arrest  the  culprits. 

5.  Hi«  ire  burned  when  she  told  him  her  age. 
Hia  «ire  burned  when  she  told  him  her  rage. 

6.  He  wa«  awed  at  the  works  of  labor  anc?  art. 
He  wa«  «awed  at  the  works  of  labor  an  rfart. 

7.  He  wa«  drained  in  the  religion  of  his  fathers. 
He  waa  sprained  in  the  religion  of  his  fathers. 


20  SANDERS'     UNION     SERIES. 


MISCELLANEOUS    EXAMPLES. 

I.  bravely  o'er  the  boisterous  billoirs, 
Sis  ffa,Ua.nt  bsbrk  w&s  borne. 

2    Can  cr&ven  cow&rds  expect  to  conquer  the  country  ? 
8    C'ick,  click,  goes  the  clock  ;  clack,  clack,  goes  the  mill. 
4.   Did  you  desire  to  Aear  his  dark  &nd  doleful  dre&ms  f 

5  "  Firm-paced  and  slow,  a  horrid  front  they  form^ 

Still  as  the  breeze  /  but  dreadful  as  the  storm.'* 

6  The  flaming  fire  flashed  fearfully  in  his  face. 

7.  The  glassy  glaciers  gleamed  in  glowing  light. 

8.  JTow  Aigh  his  honors  heaved  his  Aaugh^y  head! 

9.  He  drew  long,  legible  lines  along  the  loxely  landscape. 

10.  Masses  of  immense  magnitude  move  majestically  through,  the  va4t 
emjoire  of  the  solar  system. 

II.  Round  the  rough  and  rugged  rocks  the  ragged  rascal  ran. 

12.  The  strippling  stranger  strayed  sfraighf  toward  the  struggling 
stream. 

13.  She  uttered  a  sharp,  shrill  shriek,  and  then  shrunk  from  the  shriveled 
form  that  slumbered  in  the  shroud. 

14.  For  fear  of  ojfending  the  frightful  fugitive,  the  vile  vagabond 
ventured  to  vilify  the  venerable  veteran. 

15.  Amidst  the  mists,  with  angry  boasts, 
He  thrusts  his  fists  against  the  posts, 
And  still  insists  he  sees  the  ghosts. 

IG.  Peter  Prangle,  the  prickly  prangly  pear  picker,  picked  three 
pecks  of  prickly  prangly  pears,  from  the  prangly  pear  trees,  on  the 
pleasant  prairies. 

17.  Theophilus  Thistle,  the  successful  thistle  sifter,  in  sifting  a  sieve 
full  of  unsifted  thistles,  thrust  three  thousand  thistles  through  the  thick 
tf  kis  thumb ;  now,  if  Theophilus  Thistle,  the  successful  thistle  sifter, 
in  sifting  a  sieve  full  of  unsifted  thistles,  thrust  three  thousand  thistles 
through  the  thick  of  his  thumb,  see  that  thou,  in  sifting  a  sieve  full 
of  unsifted  thistles,  thrust  not  three  thousand  thistles  through  the  thick 
of  thy  thumb.     Success  to  the  successful  thistle  sifter. 

18.  We  travel  sea  and  soil;  we  pry,  we  prowl; 
We  progress,  and  we  prog  from  pole  to  pole. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  21 

SECTION  11. 

ACCENT   AND    EMPHASIS. 

Accent  and  Emphasis  both  indicate  some  special  stress 
^f  voice. 

Accent  is  that  stress  of  voice  by  which  one  syllable  of  a  word 
is  made  more  prominent  than  others ;  Emphasis  is  that  stress 
of  voice  by  which  one  or  more  words  of  a  sentence  are  distin- 
guished above  the  rest. 

ACCENT. 

The  accented  syllable  is  sometimes  designated  thus: 
(/);  as,  com-mand' -merit . 

Note  I. — Words  of  more  than  two  syllables  generally  have 
two  or  more  of  them  accented. 

The  more  forcible  stress  of  voice,  is  called  the  Primary 
iccent;  and  the  less  forcible,  the  Secondary  Accent. 

EXAMPLES    OF   PRIMARY   AND    SECONDARY   ACCENT. 

In  the  following  examples  the  Primary  Accent  is  designated 
by  double  accentual  marks,  thus : 

Ed'^-u-cate\  ed' -u-ca' ' -tion,  muV -ti-ply' ,  muV-ti-pU-ca^^-tion,  sat^^-it- 
fy^,  sat' -is-fac^' -lion,  com'-pre-hend^',  com'-pre-hen"-sion,  rec'-om-mend^', 
rec'-om-mend-a^'-tion,  mo'^-ment-a'-ry,  com-mu^'-ni-cate',  com' -pli-menf - 
al,  in-dem' -ni-fi-ca' ' -Hon,  ex' -tem-po-ra" -ne-ous,  coun'-ter-rev'-o-lu"-tion' 
a-ry. 

Note  II. — The  change  of  accent  on  the  same  word  ofte» 
changes  its  meaning. 

EXAMPLES. 

coF-league,  a  partner.  eol-league'',  to  unite  with 

con'-duct,  behavior.  con-duct/,  to  lead. 

des'-cant,  a  song  or  tune.  des-canf,  to  comment. 

ob'-ject,  ultimate  purpose.  ob-ject/,  to  oppose. 

in-'-ter-dict,  a  prohibition.  in-ter-dict',  to  forbid. 

o'-vei -throw,  ruin;  defeat.  o-ver-throw'',  to  throw  ioten. 


22  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES. 

Note  III — .Emphatic  words  are  often  printed  in  Ihdich 
When,  however,  different  degrees  of  emphasis  are  to  be  denoted 
the  higher  degrees  are  designated  by  the  use  of  Capitals, 
LARGER  or  smaller,  according  to  the  degree  of  intensity. 


1.  Our    mottc    shttU    be,    our  country,  our   wholb    countbt,    and 
KOTHING  BUT  OUR  COUNTRY. 

2.  Thou  Child  of  Joy !    Shout  round  me :  let  me  hbab  thy  thoutt 
Ihou  happy  Shepherd  Boy  ! 

8.  Freedom  calls  you !  quick,  be  ready, 

Think  of  what  your  sires  have  done ; 

Onward,  onward  !  strong  and  steady, 
Drive  the  tyrant  to  his  den ; 

On,  and  let  the  watchword  be. 

Country,  home,  and  LIBERTY. 

Mote  IV. — Emphasis,  as  before  intimated,  varies  in  degreei 
of  intensity. 

EXAMPLES    OF   INTENSIVE    EMPHASIS. 

t  He  shook  the  fragment  of  his  blade. 

And  shouted :  "  VICTORY !" 
"  Charge,  Chester,  charge  1     On,  Stanley,  on  I" 

2.  A  month  !    0,  for  a  single  week  I     I  ask  not  for  years' ^  though  an 
AGE  were  too  little  for  the  much  I  have  to  do.  "* 

8.     Now  foT  the  fiqht  !  now  for  the  cannon  peal  ! 

ONWARD !  through  blood,  and  toil,  and  cloud,  and  fire  I 
Glorious — the  shout,  the  shock,  the  crash  of  stiel, 
The  volley's  roll,  the  rocket's  blazing  spire  1 

4.  Hear,  0  Heavens  !  and  give  ear,  0  Earth  I 

Note  V. — Emphasis  sometimes  changes  the  seat  of  accent 
from  its  ordinary  position. 

EXAMPLES. 

There  is  a  difference  between  joo^'sibility  and  />roft'ability. 
And  behold,  the  angels  of  God  a^'cending  and  rfe'^scending  on  it. 
For  this  corruptible  must  put  on  tn'corruption,  and  this  mortal  muii 
put  on  tm-'mortality. 
Dees  his  conduct  deserve  ajt>'probation,  or  rcp'robation  ? 


RHETORICAL    READER.  23 

Note  VI. — There  are  two  kinds  of  Emphasis : — Absolute 
and  Antithetic.  Absolute  Emphasis  is  used  to  designate  the 
important  words  of  a  sentence,  without  any  direct  reference  to 
other  words. 

EXAMPLES   OF  ABSOLUTE   EMPHASIS. 

1.  Oh,  speak  to  passion's  raging  tide, 

Speak  and  say :  "peace,  be  still  I" 

2.  The  Union,  it  MUST  and  SHALL  BE  PRESERVED  I 

8.  Hush  !  breathe  it  not  aloud^ 

The  wild  winds  must  not  hear  it !     Yet,  again^ 
I  tell  thee — we  are  fkee  !  knowles. 

4.  When  my  country  shall  take  her  place  among  the  nations  of  the 
earth,  then  and  not  TILL  then,  let  my  epitaph  be  written,    emmett. 

5.  If  you  are  men,  follow  me  !  Strike  down  yon  guards  and  gain  the 
mountain  passes. 

6.  Oh  !  shame  on  us,  countrymen,  shame  on  us  all. 

If  we  cringe  to  so  dastard  a  race. 

7.  This  doctrine  never  was  received;  it  never  can,  bg  any  POSSIBIL- 
ITY, BE  RECEIVED ;  and,  if  admitted  at  all,  it  must  be  by  THE  TOTA.L 
SUBVERSION  OF  LIBERTY  I 

8.  Are  you  Christians,  and,  by  upholding  duelists,  will  you  deluge  th« 
land  with  blood,  and  fill  it  with  widows  and  orphans  f  beecher. 

9.  LiBERTT  and  union,  now  and  forever,  one  and  inseparable. 

WEBSTER. 

10.  Treason!  cried  the  speaker;  treason,  treason,  TREASON,  re- 
echoed from  every  part  of  the  house. 

11.  The  war  is  inevitable, — and  let  it  come  I     I  repeat  it,  Sir, — LET 

IT   COME  I  PATRICK  HENRY 

12.  Be  we  men, 
And  suflFer  such  dishonor  ?     Men,  and  wash  not 

The  stain  away  in  blood  ?  miss  mitford. 

18.  0  SACRED  forms  !  how  proud  you  look  I 

How  high  you  lift  your  heads  into  the  sky  1 

How  huge  you  are  I  how  mighty  and  how  free  !    knowles 

14.  I  shall  know  but  one  country.  The  ends  /  aim  at,  shall  be  "  M.y 
Country's,  my  God's,  and  Truth's."  websteb 


24  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES. 

Note  VII. — Antithetic  Emphasis  is  that  which  is  founded 
on  the  contrast  of  one  word  or  clause  with  another. 

EXAMPLES    OF    ANTITHETIC    EMPHASIS. 

1.  The  faults  of  others  should  always  remind  us  of  our  own. 

2.  He  desired  to  protect  his  friend,  not  to  injure  him 

3.  But  yesterday,  the  word  of  Caesar  might 

Have  stood  against  the  world ;  now  lies  he  there, 

And  none  so  poor  to  do  him  reverence.  shakspeakk. 

4.  A  good  name  is  rather  to  be  chosen  than  great  riches.  B  eble. 
6    We  can  do  nothing  against  the  truth ;  but  for  the  truth.  id. 

6.  He  that  is  slow  to  anger,  is  better  than  the  mighty ;  and  he  that 
ruUth  his  spirit,  than  he  that  taketh  a  city.  id. 

Note  VIII. — The  following  examples  contain  two  or  more 
sets  of  Antitheses. 

1.  Just  men  are  only  free,  the  rest  are  slaves. 

2.  Beauty  is  like  the  flower  of  spring;  virtue  is  like  the  stars  of  heaveh. 

8.  Truth  crushed  to  earth  shall  rise  again, 

The  eternal  years  of  God  are  hers ; 
But  error,  wounded,  writhes  in  pain. 

And  dies  amid  her  worshipers.  bryant. 

4.  A  false  balance  is  abomination  to  the  Lord;  but  a  just  weight  is  his 
delight.  bible. 

6.  A  friend  can  not  be  known  in  prosperity  ;  and  an  enemy  can  not  be 
hidden  in  adversity. 

6.  It  is  my  living  sentiment,  and,  by  the  blessing  of  God,  it  shall  be 
my  dying  sentiment;  independence  now,  and  independence  forevee, 

WEBSTER. 

7.  We  live  in  deeds,  not  years, — ^in  thoughts,  not  breath, — in  feelings,  i.ot 
in  figures  on  a  dial.     We  should  count  time  by  heart-throbs.     He  m.i/i 

lives,  who  THINKS  THE  MOST, FEELS  THE  NOBLEST, — ACTS  THE  BEST 

8    You  have  done  the  mischief,  and  /  bear  the  blame. 

9.  The  wise  man  is  happy  when  he  gams  his  own  approbation ;  the 
fool,  when  he  gains  that  of  others. 

10.  We  must  hold  them  as  we  hold  the  rest  of  mankind — enemies  in 
war, — in.  peace  friends.  jbffebson. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  25 

Note  IX. — The  sense  of  a  passage  is  varied  by  changing  the 
place  of  the  emphasis. 


1.  Has  James  seen  his  brother  to-day  ?     No ;  but  Charles  has. 

2.  Has  James  «ecn  his  brother  to-day ?  No;  but  he  has  heard  from 
bim 

.?    Has  James  seen  his  brother  to-day  ?     No ;  but  he  saw  yours. 

4.  Has  James  seen  his  brother  to-day?  No:  but  he  has  seen  his 
tister. 

5.  Has  James  seen  his  brother  to-day  f  No ;  but  he  saw  him  yes- 
terday. 

Remark. — To  determine  the  emphatic  words  of  a  sentence, 
as  well  as  the  degree  and  kind  of  emphasis  to  be  employed,  the 
reader  must  be  governed  wholly  by  the  sentiment  to  be  expressed. 
The  idea  is  sometimes  entertained  that  emphasis  consists  merely 
in  loudness  of  tone.  But  it  should  be  borne  in  mind,  that  the 
most  intense  emphasis  may  often  be  eflfectively  expressed,  even 
by  a  whisper. 


"•^ 


SECTION  III. 

INFLECTIONS. 


Inflections  are  turns  or  slides  of  the  voice,  made 
111   reading   or   speaking;    as,   Will    you    go    to    New 

or  to 


%^ 


All  the  various  sounds  of  the  human  voice  may  be  compre- 
hended under  the  general  appellation  of  tones.     The  principal 
modifications  of  these  tones  are  the  Monotone,  the  RisiNO 
Inflection,  the  Falling  Inflection,  and  the  Circumflex. 
2  6R 


20  SANDERS      UNION    SERIES. 

The  Horizontal  Line  ( — )  denotes  the  Monotone. 
The  Rising  Shde        (  z')  denotes  the  Rising  InflectioQ. 
The  Falling  Slide       (  \  )  denotes  the  Falling  Inflection. 
The  Curve  (^)  denotes  the  Circumflex. 

The  Monotone  is  that  sameness  of  sound,  which  arises 
from  repeating  the  several  words  or  syllables  of  a  passage 
in  one  and  the  same  general  tone. 

Remark. — The  Monotone  is  employed  with  admirable  eflfect 
ill  the  delivery  of  a  passage  that  is  solemn  or  sublime. 

EXAMPLES. 

1.  0  thou  that  rollest  above,  round  as  the  shield  of  my  fathers . 
whence  are  thy  beams,  0  sun,  thy  everlasting  light  ?  onsujx. 

2.  "Hs  midnight's  holy  hour,  and  silence  now 
Is  brooding,  like  a  gentle  spirit,  o'er 

The  still  and  pulseless  world.     Hark !  on  the  winds 

The  bells'  deep  tones  are  swelling ;  'tis  the  knell 

Of  the  departed  year.  prentice. 

3.  Qoi  came  from  Teman,  and  the  Holy  One  from  Mount  Paran 
Selah.  His  glory  covered  the  heavens,  and  the  earth  was  full  of  His 
praise. 

4.  Before  Him  went  the  pestilence,  and  burning  coals  went  forth  at 
His  feet.  He  stood  and  measured  the  earth:  He  beheld,  and  drore 
asunder  the  nations  ;  and  the  everlasting  mountains  were  scattered,  the 
perpetual  hills  did  bow :  His  ways  are  everlasting.  bible. 

5.  The  heavens  declare  the  glory  of  God,  and  the  firmament  showeth 
His  handy  work.  Day  unto  day  uttereth  speech,  and  night  unto  nigjit 
Bhoweth  knowledge.  There  is  no  speech  nor  language,  wheie  their 
yoice  is  not  heard.  id. 

6.  How  brief  is  life  !  how  passing  brief  I 

How  brief  its  joys  and  cares ! 
It  seems  to  be  in  league  with  time, 
And  leaves  iis  unawares. 

T  The  thiinder  rolls :  be  hiished  the  prostrate  world, 

While  cloiirl  to  cloiid  retiirns  the  solemn  hymn.       thomsom 


RHETORICAL    READER. 


27 


Remark. — The  inappropriate  use  of  the  monotone, — a  fault 
into  which  young  people  naturally  fall, — is  a  very  grave  and 
obsf  Jiate  error.  It  is  always  tedious,  and  often  even  ridiculous. 
It  snould  be  studiously  avoided. 

The  Rising  Inflection  is  an  upward  turn,  or  slide 
of  the  voice,. used  in  reading  or  speaking;  as,  Are  you 

prepared  to  recite  your  ^ 

The  Falling  Inflection  is  a  downward  turn,  or  slide 
of  the  voice,  used  in  reading  or  speaking ;  as,  What  are 


Q'r.y. 


you 


^^.^ 


In  the  falling  inflection,  the  voice  should  not  sink  below  the 
general  pitch;  but  in  the  rising  inflection,  it  is  raised  above  it. 

The  two  inflections  may  be  illustrated  by  the  followiog 
diagrams : 


2.  Did  they  go 


"^. 


He  acted 


^%. 


They  went         X^ 


..v«e^ 


8.  If  the  flight  of  Dryden  is 
\      If  the  blaze  of  Dryden's  fire  is  ^^^     the  heat  of  Pope's  it 


Pope  continues  longer  on  the 


more  regular  and 


28  SANDERS'     UNION    SERIES. 

4.  [s  honor's  lofty  soul  forever  fled'  ? 

Is  virtue  lost''  ?     Is  martial  ardor  dead''  ? 
Is  there  no  heart  where  worth  and  valor  dwell'  ? 
No  patriot  Wallace'  ?     No  undaunted?  Tell'  ? 
Ye8\  Freedom,  yes^ !  thy  sons,  a  noble  band, 
Around  thy  banner,  firm,  exulting  stand\ 

Remark. — The  same  degree  of  inflection  is  not,  at  all  times 
ased,  or  indicated  by  the  notation.  The  due  degree  to  be 
employed,  depends  on  the  nature  of  what  is  to  be  expressed. 
For  example ;  if  a  person,  under  great  excitement,  asks  another ; 

/ 

Are  you  in  *  the  degree  of  inflection   would   be   much 

greater,  than  if  he  playfully  asks :  Are  you  in   ®*  Tho 

former  inflection  may  be  called  intensive^  the  latter,  common. 


RULES  FOR  THE  USE  OF  INFLECTIONS. 

RULE  I. 

Direct  questions,  or  those  which  may  be  answered  by 
yes  or  no,  usually  take  the  rising  inflection;  but  their 
answers,  generally,  the  falling. 

KXAMPLSS. 

1    Will  you  meet  me  at  the  depot'  ?    Yes^ ;  or,  I  will\ 

2.  Did  you  inteni  to  visit  Boston'  ?    No^ ;  or,  I  did  not\ 

8.  Can  you  explain  this  difficult  sentence'  ?    Tes^ ;  I  can. 

4   Are  they  willing  to  remain  at  home'  ?     They  are^. 

6.  Is  this  a  time  for  imbecility  and  inaction'  ?     By  no  means^. 

6.  King  Agrippa,  believest  thou  the  prophets'  ?     I  know  that  thou 
believesO. 

7.  Were  the  tribes  of  this  country,  when  first  discovered,  making  any 
progress  in  arts  and  civilization'  ?     By  no  means\ 


RHETORICAL    READER.  29 

To  purchase  heaven  has  gold  the  power'  ? 

Can  gold  remove  the  mortal  hour''  ? 

In  life,  can  love  be  bought  with  gold'  ? 

Are  friendship's  pleasures  to  be  sold'  ? 

No^ ;  all  that's  worth  a  wish,  a  thought, 

Fair  virtue  gives  unbribed,  unbought. 
9.   What  would  content  you^  ?     Talents'  ?     No\     Enterprise'  ?     No\ 
Courage'?      No\      Reputation'?      No\      Virtue'?      No\      The    man 
whom  you  would  select,  should  possess  not  one,  but  all  of  these\ 

Note  I. — Wlien  the  direct  question  becomes  an  appeal,  and 
the  reply  to  it  is  anticipated,  it  takes  the  intense  falling 
inflection. 

EXAMPLES. 

1.  Is^  he  not  a  bold  and  eloquent  speaker^  ? 

2.  CarC"  such  inconsistent  measures  be  adopted^  ? 

3.  Did^  you  ever  hear  of  such  cruel  barbarities^  ? 

4.  Is  this  reason^  ?     /*  it  law^  ?     Is  it  humanity^  ? 

5.  Waa""  not  the  gentleman's  argument  conclusive^  ? 

RULE   II. 

Indirect  questions,  or  those  which  can  not  be  answered 
by  yes  or  no,  usually  take  the  falling  inflection,  and  theii 
answers  the  same. 


1.  How  far  did  you  travel  yesterday^  ?     Forty  miles^. 

2.  Which  of  you  brought  this  beautiful  bouquet^  ?     Julia^. 

3.  Where  do  you  intend  to  spend  the  summer^  ?     At  Saratoga\ 

4.  When  will  Charles  graduate  at  college^  ?     Next  year^. 

5.  What  is  one  of  the  most  delightful  emotions  of  the  heartM 
'Tlratitude\ 

Note  I. — When  the  indirect  question  is  one  asking  a  repe 
tition  of  what  was  not,  at  first,  understood,  it  takes  the  risiiig 
inflection. 

EXAMPLES. 

1.  When  do  you  expect  to  return  ?     Next  week. 
When  did  you  say'  ?     Next  week. 

2.  Where  did  you  say  William  had  gone'  ?     To  New  Fork. 


30  SANDERS'     UNION    SERIES. 

Note  II. — Answers  to  questions,  whether  direct  or  indirect, 
when  'Expressive  of  indifference,  take  the  rising  inflection,  or 
the  circumflex. 

EXAMPLES. 

1.  Did  you  admire  his  discourse  ?     Not  much^ 

2.  Which  way  shall  we  walk  ?     I  am  not  particular^ 
8    Can  Henry  go  with  us  ?     If  he  chooses'. 

4.  What  color  do  you  prefer  ?     I  have  no  particular  choice^ 

Note  III. — In  some  instances,  direct  questions  become  in 
direct  by  a  change  of  the  inflection  from  the  rising  to  the 
falling- 

EXAMPLES. 

1.  Will  you  come  to-morrow'  or  next  day'  ?     Yes. 

2.  Will  you  come  to-morrow/  or  next  day^?     I  will  come  to-morrow. 

Remark. — The  first  question  asks  if  the  person  addressed 
will  come  within  the  two  days,  and  may  be  answered  by  yes  or 
no  ;  but  the  second  asks  on  which  of  the  two  days  he  will  come, 
and  it  can  not  be  thus  answered. 


RULE  III. 

When  questions  are  connected  by  the  conjunction  or, 
the  first  requires  the  rising,  and  the  second;  the  falling 
inflection. 

EXAMPLES. 

X.  Does  he  study  for  amusement',  or  improvement^  ? 
2>  Was  he  esteemed  for  his  wealth',  or  for  his  wisdom^  ? 

3.  Sink'  or  8wim\  live'  or  die\  survive'  or  perish\  I  give  my  haid 
and  heart  to  this  vote.  webster 

4.  Is  it  lawful  to  do  good  on  the  Sabbath-days',  or  to  do  evil^  ?  to 
save  life',  or  to  kiir  ?  bible. 

5.  Was  it  an  ajt  of  moral  courage',  or  cowardice^  for  Cato  to  fall  on 
hissword^? 


RHETORICAL    READER.  SI 


RULE    IV. 

Antithetic  terms  or  clauses  usually  take  opposite  in- 
flections ;  generally,  the  former  has  the  rising,  and  the 
latter  the  falling  inflection. 

EXAMPLES. 

1.  If  you  seek  to  make  one  rich,  study  not  to  increase  his  storei' ; 
but  to  diminish  his  desires\ 

2.  They  have  mouths'', — but  they  speak  noO : 
Eyes  have  they', — but  they  see  not^ : 
They  have  ears', — but  they  hear  not^: 
Noses  have  they', — but  they  smell  not^ : 
They  have  hands',  — but  they  handle  not^ : 

Feet  have  they', — but  they  walk  not\  bible. 

Note  I. — When  one  of  the  antithetic  clauses  is  a  negative^ 
and  the  other  an  affirmative,  generally  the  negative  has  the 
rising^  and  the  aflfirmative  the  falling  inflection. 

EXAMPLES. 

1,  I  said  an  elder  soldier\  not  a  better'. 

2,  His  acts  deserve  punishment^,  rather  than  commiseration'. 

3,  This  is  no  time  for  a  tribunal  of  justice',  but  for  showing  mercy^ ; 
not  for  accusation',  but  for  philantkropy^ ;  not  for  trial',  but  for  pardon^ ; 
not  for  sentence  and  execution',  but  for  compassion  and  kindness^ 


RULE   V. 

The  Pause  of  Suspension,  denoting  that  the  sense  is 
incomplete,  usually  has  the  rising  inflection. 

EXAMPLES. 

1.  Although  the  fig-tree  shall  not  blossom',  neither  shall  fruit  be  in 
the  vine' ;  the  labor  of  the  olive  shall  fail',  and  the  fields  shall  yield  no 
meat' ;  the  flocks  shall  be  cut  off  from  the  fold',  and  there  shall  be  nc 
herd  in  the  stalls' ;  yet  will  I  rejoice  in  the  Lord\  I  will  joy  in  the 
God  of  my  8alvation\  bibl*. 


82  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES. 

Note  I. — The  ordinary  direct  address,  not  accompanied  with 
strong  emphasis,  takes  the  rising  inflection,  on  the  principle  of 
the  pause  of  suspension. 

EXAMPLES. 

1.  Men^  brethren'',  and  fathers'',  hear  ye  my  defense  which  I  maka 
oow  untc  you.  bible. 

2.  Ye  living  flowers-',  that  skirt  the  eternal  frost''  1 
Ye  wild  goats-',  sporting  round  the  eagle's  nest^l 
Ye  eagles-',  playmates  of  the  mountain  storm'  I 
Ye  lightnings-',  the  dread  arrows  of  the  clouds'  1 
Ye  signs-'  and  wonders-'  of  the  elements-'  I 

Utter  forth  Gon\  and  fill  the  hills  with  praiseM   coleiiidoe. 

Note  II. — In  some  instances  of  a  pause  of  suspension,  the 
sense  requires  an  intense  falling  inflection. 


1.  The  prodigal,  if  he  does  not  become  a  pauper^,  will,  at  least,  have 
out  little  to  bestow  on  others. 

Kemark. — If  the  rising  inflection  is  given  on  pauper,  the 
sense  would  be  perverted,  and  the  passage  n}ade  to  mean,  that, 
in  order  to  be  able  to  bestow  on  others,  it  is  necessary  that  he 
should  become  a  pauper.  • 


RULE  VI. 

Expressions  of  tenderness,  as  of  grief,  or  kindness, 
commonly  incline  the  voice  to  the  rising  inflection. 

examples. 

1.  Mother', — ^^I  leave  thy  dwelling' ; 

Oh !  shall  it  be  forever'  ? 
With  grief  my  heart  is  swelling', 
Fi'om  thee', — from  thee', — to  sever'. 

2.  0  my  son  Absalom' I  my  son',  my  son  Absalom' I     Would  God  ] 
hfttl  died  for  thee',  Absalom',  my  son',  my  son'  1  bible. 


RHETORICAL    READ  Ktt.  33 

RULE    VII. 

The  Penultimate  Pause,  or  the  last  hut  one,  of  a 
passage,  is  usually  preceded  hy  the  ruing  inflection. 

EXAMPLES. 

1  Diligences  industry^  and  proper  improvement  of  time',  are  mate- 
rial  duties  of  the  young.^ 

2  These  through  faith  subdued  kingdoms^  wrought  righteousnes8\ 
obtained  promises\  stopped  the  mouths  of  lions\  quenched  the  violence 
of  fire\  escaped  the  edge  of  the  8Word\  out  of  weakness  were  made 
Btrong\  waxed  valiant  in  fight'',  turned  to  flight  the  armies  of  the 
aliens\ 

Remark. — The  rising  inflection  is  employed  at  the  penulti- 
mate pause  in  order  to  promote  variety,  since  the  voice  generally 
falls  at  the  end  of  a  sentence. 

RULE    VIII. 

Expressions  of  strong  emotion,  as  of  anger  or  surprise, 
and  also  the  language  of  authority  and  reproach,  are 
expressed  with  the  falling  inflection. 

EXAMPLES. 

L.  On  Tou\  and  on  your  children^  be  the  peril  of  the  innocent 
blood  which  shall  be  shed  this  day\ 

2.  What  a  piece  of  workmanship  is  manM  How  noble  in  reasgnM 
How  infinite  in  faculties^  ! 

3.  0  FOOLS^ !  and  slow  of  heart  to  believe  all  that  the  prophets  hav* 
jrritten  concerning  me^ !  bible. 

4.  Hencb\  home\  you  idle  creatures^^  get  tou  home\ 

You  blooks\  you  stones\  tou  worse  than  useless  things^  ! 
6.  Avaunt^ !  and  quit  my  sight^  I  let  the  earth  hide  thee^  I     Thy  bones 
are  marrowlesa  ;  thou  hast  no  speculation  in  thine  eyes  which  thou  dost 
glare^  with.  shakspearb. 

5.  Slave,  do  thy  office' !     Strike\  as  I  struck  the  foe'  I 
Strike ,  as  I  would  have  struck  the  tyrants' ! 

Strike  deep  as  my  curse^ !     Strike',  and  but  once'  I  lo 

2*  6R 


;8^         .  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES. 

RULE   IX. 

An  emphatic  succession  of  particulars,  and  emphatic 
repetition,  require  the  falling  inflection. 

EXAMPLES. 

1.  Bewar^  what  earth  calls  happiness ;  beware^ 
All  joys  but  joys  that  never  can  expire\ 

2.  A  great  mind\  a  great  heart\  a  great  orator^  a  great  career'', 
have  been  consigned  to  history\  butler. 

Remark. — The  stress  of  voice  on  each  successive  particu- 
lar,  or  repetition,  should  gradually  be  increased  as  the  subject 
advances. 

The  Circumflex  is  a  union  of  the  two  inflections  on 
the  same  word,  beginning  either  with  the  falling  and 
ending  with  the  rising,  or  with  the  rising  and  ending 

with  the  falling ;  as,  If  he  goes  to  ^  ^^"^  I  shall  go  to 

^\ 

The  circumflex  is  mainly  employed  in  the  language  of 
irony,  and  in  expressing  ideas  implying  some  condition, 
either  expressed  or  understood. 

EXAMPLES. 

1.  Yoii,  a  beardless  youth,  pretend  to  teach  a  British  general. 

2.  What!  shear  a  wolf ?  a  prowling  wolf ? 

8.  My  father's  trade  ?  ah,  really,  that's  too  bad  ? 

My  father's  trade  ?     Why,  blockhead,  are  you  mad  ? 
My  father,  sir,  did  never  stoop  so  low, — 
He  was  a  gentleman,  I'd  have  you  know. 

4.  What !  confer  a  crown  on  the  author  of  the  public  calamities  ? 

5.  But  you  are  very  wise  men,  and  deeply  learned  in  the  truth ;  w8 
are  weak,  contemptible,  mean  persons. 

6.  They  pretend  they  come  to  improve  our  state,  enlarge  our  thoughts, 
and  free  us  from  error. 

7.  But  youth,  it  seems,  is  not  my  only  crime ;  I  have  been  accTJSed 
of  acting  a  theatrical  part. 

8    4nd  this  man  has  become  a  god,  and  Cassius  a  wretched  creature. 


RHETORICAL    HEADER.  35 

SECTION   IV. 

MODULATION. 

Modulation  implies  those  variations  of  the  voice, 
heard  in  reading  or  speaking,  which  are  prompted  hy 
the  feelings  and  emotions  that  the  subject  inspires. 

BiSAMPLES 
EXPRESSIVE    OP   COURAGE    AND    CHIVALROUS    EXCITEMENT. 

Full        f  Once  more  unto  the  breach,  dear  friends,  once  more^ 

Tone       I  Or  close  the  wall  up  with  our  English  dead ! 

Middle  f  In  peace,  there's  nothing  so  becomes  a  man, 

Tone.      \  As  modest  stillness  and  humility ; 

But  when  the  blast  of  war  blows  in  our  ears, 
Then  imitate  the  action  of  the  tiger ; 
Stiffen  the  sinews,  summon  up  the  blood, 
Disguise  fair  nature  with  hard-favored  rage.  » 

''  On,  ON,  you  noblest  English, 
Whose  blood  is  fetched  from  fathers  of  war-proof  t 
Fathers,  that,  like  so  many  Alexanders, 
Have,  in  these  parts,  from  morn  till  even  fought. 
And  sheathed  their  swords  for  lack  of  argument. 
I  see  you  stand  like  greyhounds  in  the  slips. 
Straining  upon  the  start.     The  game's  afoot ; 
Follow  your  spirits,  and,  upon  this  charge, 
Cry — Heaven  for  Harry!  England!  and  St.  GeohgkI 

shakspearb. 

Remark. — To  read  the  foregoing  example  in  one  dull,  mo« 
notonous  tone  of  voice,  \7ith0ut  regard  to  the  sentiment  ex- 
pressed, would  render  the  passage  extremely  insipid  and  life- 
less But  by  a  proper  modulation  of  the  voice,  it  infuses  into 
the  mind  of  the  reader  or  hearer  the  most  animating  and 
exciting-emotions. 

The  voice  is  modulated  in  three  diflferent  ways.  First,  it  is 
varied  in  Pitch;  that  is,  from  high  to  loto  tones,  and  the 
reverse.  Secondly,  it  is  varied  in  Quantity,  or  in  loudness  or 
volume  of  sound.  .  Thirdly,  it  is  varied  in  Quality,  or  in  the 
kind  of  sound  expressed 


Short 

AND 

Quick. 

HlOH 
AND 

Loud. 
Quick, 

AND 
VERT 

Loud. 


3()  SANDERS'     UNION     SERIES. 

PITCH    OF    VOICE. 

Pitch  of  Voice  has  reference  to  its  degree  of  ele- 
vation. 

J^jvery  person,  in  reading  or  speaking,  assumts  a  certain 
pitch,  which  may  be  either  high  or  lowy  according  to  circum- 
stance? and  which  has  a  governing  influence  on  the  variations 
of  tlie  voice,  above  and  below  it.  This  degree  of  t!evation  \h 
isiially  called  the  Key  Note. 

As  an  exercise  in  varying  the  voice  in  pitch,  the  practice  of 
uttering  a  sentence  on  the  several  degrees  of  elevation,  as 
represented  in  the  following  scale,  will  be  found  beneficial. 
First,  utter  the  musical  syllables,  then  the  vowel  sound,  and 
lastly,  the  proposed  sentence, — ascending  and  descending. 


-8. — (lo — # — c-in-mc. — Virtue  alone  survives. 


7.     si     #    t   in  (Ije.     Virtue  alone  survives. 
— la — # — o-in-do. — Virtue  alone  survives. — 


6.    sol    0      0  in  no.     Virtue  alone  survives. 
-4. — fa — # — o-in-at. — Virtue   alone  survives. — 


3.    mi    #     a  in  ale.     Virtue  alone  survives. 
-2. — re — # — a-in-far. — Virtue  alone  survives. — 


1       do     #     a  in  all.     Virtue  alone  survives. 

Althou^^h  the  voice  is  capable  of  as  many  variations  in 
speaking,  as  are  marked  on  the  musical  scale,  yet  for  all  the 
purposes  of  ordinary  elocution,  it  will  be  sufl&ciently  exact  if  we 
make  but  three  degrees  of  variation,  viz.,  the  Low,  the  Middle^ 
and  the  High. 

1.  The  Low  Pitch  is  that  which  falls  below  the  usual 
speaking  key,  and  is  employed  in  expressing  emotions  »..f 
miKimityj  awe,  and  reverence. 


Silence   how  dead !  darkness,  how  profound  I 

Nor  eye,  nor  list'niug  ear,  an  object  finds ; 

Creation  sleeps.     'Tis  as  the  general  pulse 

Of  life  stood  still,  and  Nature  made  a  pause, — 

An  awful  pause  !  prophetic  of  her  end.  TOims 


RHETORICAL    READER.  37 

2.  The  Middle  Pitch  is  that  usually  employed  in  common 
conversation,  and  in  expressing  unimpas^ioned  tliought  and 
moderate  emotion. 

EXAMPLES. 

1  it  was  wrly  in  a  summer  morning,  when  the  air  was  cool,  the 
earth  moist,  the  whole  face  of  the  creation  fresh  and  gay,  that  I  lately 
walked  in  a  beautiful  flower  garden,  and,  at  once,  regaled  the  senses 
%q1  indulged  the  fancy.  HEKVEr. 

2  **Ilove  to  live,"  said  a  prattling  ooy, 

As  he  gayly  played  with  his  new-bought  toy, 
And  a  merry  laugh  went  echoing  forth, 
From  a  bosom  filled  with  joyous  mirth. 

8.  The  High  Pitch  is  that  which  rises  above  the  usual 
speaking  key,  and  is  used  in  expressing  joyous  and  elevated 
feelings. 

EXAMPLli. 

Higher,  higher,  ever  higher, — 
Let  the  watchword  be  "Aspire I" 

Noble  Christian  youth ; 
Whatsoe'er  be  God's  behest, 
Try  to  do  that  duty  best. 

In  the  strength  of  Truth.  m.  f.  tuppee. 

QUANTITY. 

Quantity  is  two-fold ; — consisting  in  fullness  or 
VOLUME  of  sound,  as  soft  or  loud ;  and  in  time,  as  slow 
or  quick.  The  former  has  reference  to  stress,  che 
latter,  to  movement. 

The  degrees  of  variation  in  quantity  are  numerous,  varying 
from  a  slight,  soft  whisper  to  a  vehement  shout.  But  ^b-  all 
practical  purposes,  they  may  be  considered  as  three^  the  same 
as  in  pitch  j — the  soft^  the  middle^  and  the  loud. 

For  exercise  in  quantity,  let  the  pupil  read  any  sentence,  as, 

**  Beauty  is  a  fading  flower." 


38  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES. 

first  in  a  slight,  soft  tone,  and  then  repeat  it,  gradually  in. 
creasing  m  quantity  to  the  full  extent  of  the  voice.  Also,  let 
him  read  it  first  very  slowly,  and  then  repeat  it  gradually 
increasing  the  movement.  In  doing  this,  he  should  be  careful 
not  to  vary  the  pitch. 

In  like  manner,  let  him  repeat  any  vowel  sound,  or  all  of 
them,  and  also  inversely.     Thus : 

ccooOOOOOOO 
OOOO      000000     0 

Remark. — Quantity  is  often  mistaken  for  Pitch.  But  it 
should  be  borne  in  mind  that  quantity  has  reference  to  loudness 
or  volume  of  sound,  and  pitch  to  the  elevation  or  depression  of  a 
tone.  The  difi'erence  may  be  distinguished  by  the  slight  and 
heavy  strokes  on  a  bell : — both  of  which  produce  sounds  alike 
in  pitch ;  but  they  differ  in  quantity  or  loudness^  in  proportion 
as  the  strokes  are  light  or  heavy. 

RULES  FOR  QUANTITY. 

1.  Soft,  or  Subdued  Tones,  are  those  which  range  from  a 
»f  his  per  to  a  complete  vocality,  and  are  used  to  express  fear^ 
eauti'on^  secrecy,  solemnity,  and  all  tender  emotions. 

EXAMPLES. 

I  We  watched  her  breathing  through  the  night, 

Her  breathing  soft  and  low, 
As  in  her  breast  the  wave  of  life 

Kept  heaving  to  and  fro.  hood. 

2.  Softly,  peacefully. 

Lay  her  to  rest ; 
Place  the  turf  lightly. 

On  her  young  breast.  D.  B.  oooduax 

8.  The  loud  wind  dwindled  to  a  whisper  low. 

And  sighed  for  pity  as  it  answered, — "No." 


RHETCRICAL    READER  -g© 

2    A  Middle  Tone,  or  medium  loudness  of  voice,  is  em* 
ployed  in  reading  narrative,  descriptive,  or  didactic  sentences. 


I  love  my  country's  pine-clad  hills, 
Her  thousand  bright  and  gushing  rills, 

Her  sunshine  and  her  storms ; 
Her  rough  and  rugged  rocks  that  rear 
Their  hoary  heads  high  in  the  air, 

In  wild  fantastic  forms. 

3.  A  Loud  Tone,  or  fullness  and  stress  of  voice  is  used  in 
expressing  violeiM  passions  and  vehement  emotions. 

EXAMPLES. 

1.  Stand  !  the  ground's  your  own,  my  braves,— 

\^11  ye  give  it  up  to  slaves  9 
Will  ye  look  for  greener  graves  f 

Hope  yc  mercy  still  ? 
What's  the  mercy  despots  feel  ? 
Hear  it  in  that  battle-peal, — 
Read  it  on  yon  bristling  steel, — 

Ask  it — ye  who  will !  pierpont. 

2  <♦  Hold  !"  Tyranny  cries ;  but  their  resolute  breath 

Sends  back  the  reply:  " Independence  or  death!" 


QUALITY. 

Quality  has  reference  to  the  hind  of  sound  uttered. 

Two  sounds  may  be  alike  in  quantity  and  pitch,  yet  differ  in 
quality.  The  sounds  produced  on  the  clarinet  and  flute,  may 
agree  in  pitch  and  quantity,  yet  be  unlike  in  quality.  The 
same  is  true  in  regard  to  the  tones  of  the  voice  of  two  indi- 
viduals. This  difference  is  occasioned  mainly  by  the  different 
positions  of  the  vocal  organs. 

The  qualities  of  voice  mostly  used  in  reading  or  speaking, 
and  which  should  receive  the  highest  degree  of  culture,  are  the 
Vure  Tone,  tbe  Orotund,  the  Aspirated,  and  the  Guttural 


10  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES. 

RULES   FOR   QUALITY. 

1.  The  Pure  Tone  is  a  clear,  smooth,  sonorous  flow  of 
sound,  usually  accompanied  with  the  middle  pitch  of  voice, 
and  is  adapted  to  express  emotions  of  Joy,  cheerfulness,  love,  and 
tranquillity. 

EXAMPLE. 

Hail !  beauteous  stranger  of  the  wood, 

Attendant  on  the  spring, 
Now  heaven  repairs  thy  vernal  seat, 

And  woods  thy  welcome  sing.  cowpkb. 

2.  The  Orotund  is  a  full,  deep,  round,  and  pure  tone  of 
voice,  peculiarly  adapted  in  expressing  sublime  and  pathetic 
emotions. 

EXAMPLE. 

It  thunders !     Sons  of  dust,  in  reverence  bow  ! 
Ancient  of  Days!  Thou  speakest  from  abo^e: 
Almiglity !  trembling,  like  a  timid  child, 
I  hear  thy  awful  voice.     Alarmed — afraid- — 
I  see  the  flashes  of  thy  lightning  wild, 
And  in  the  very  grave  would  hide  my  head. 

3.  The  Aspirated  Tone  of  voice  is  not  a  pure,  vocal  sound, 
but  rather  a  forcible  breathing  utterance,  and  is  used  to  express 
amazemicnty  fear^  terror,  anger,  revenge,  remorse,  and  fervent 
emotions. 

SXAMPLB. 

Oh,  coward  conscience,  how  dost  thou  affright  me! 
The  lights  burn  blue.     It  is  now  dead  midnight ; 
Cold,  fearful  drops  stand  on  my  trembling  flesh. 

4.  The  Guttural  Quality  is  a  deep,  aspirated  tone  of 
voice,  used  to  express  aversion,  hatred,  loathing,  and  contempL 

EXAMPLE. 

Tell  me  I  hate  the  bowl  ? 

Hath  is  a  feeble  word : 
I  loathe,  ABHOR,  my  very  soul 

With  strong  disgust  is  stirred, 
Whene'er  1  see,  or  hear,  or  tell. 
Of  the  dark  beverage  of  hell. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  It 


NOTATION   IN    MODULATION. 


(  »  )  high.  (  p.  )  soft. 

(°  °)  high  and  loud.  {pp-^  very  soft. 

(  ^  )  low.  (  /  )  loud. 

(o  o)  ^^^  ^°^  loud.  .  (  if-  )  "^^ry  loud. 

(=■)  quick.  (i'^-)  plaintive. 

(  '  )  short  and  quick.  (  <C  )  increase. 

(  «  )  slow.  (I>  )  decrease. 

EXAMPLES    FOR   EXERCISE   IN    MODULATION. 

(/?  )      Soft  is  the  strain  when  zephyr  gently  blows, 

And  the  smooth  stream  in  smoother  numbers  flows ; 

(/.)      But  when  loud  surges  lash  the  sounding  shore, 

The  hoarse  rough  verse  should  like  the  torrent  roar. 

(»Z.)      When  Ajax  strives  some  rock's  vast  weight  to  throw, 
The  line,  too,  labors,  and  the  words  move  slow ; 

(— -)      Not  so,  when  swift  Camilla  scours  the  plain, 

Flies  o'er  the  unbending  corn,  and  skims  along  the  main,    pop] 

(-L)  Go  ring  the  bells  and  fire  the  guns. 

And  fling  the  starry  banner  out ; 
{ff.)  Shout  "  Freedom"  till  your  lisping  ones 

Give  back  the  cradle  shout.  whittier. 

{pi  )  "And  now,  farewell  I     'Tis  hard  to  give  thee  up, 

With  death  so  like  a  gentle  slumber  on  thee  I — 
And  thy  dark  sin  ! — oh !  I  could  drink  the  cup, 
If  from  this  woe  its  bitterness  had  won  thee. 
May  God  have  called  thee,  like  a  wanderer,  home, 

My  lost  boy,  Absalom  !"  wiLua 

(«i,)  The.  sun  hath  set  in  folded  clouds, — 

Its  twilight  rays  are  gone, 
(^  And,  gathered  in  the  shades  of  night, 

The  storm  is  rolling  on. 
{pi.)  Alas !  how  ill  that  bursting  storm 

r^^  The  fainting  spirit  braves, 

(/>.)  When  they,^he  lovely  and  the  lost, — 

{pi.)  Are  gone  to  early  graves ! 


12  SANDERS'    UNION     SERIES. 

(®)  On !  onwai'd  still !  o'er  the  land  he  sweeps, 

(■<C)  With  wreck,  and  ruin,  and  rush,  and  roar, 

Nor  stops  to  look  back 

On  his  dreary  track, 
('^)  But  speeds  to  the  spoils  before.  miss  j.  n.  lewis. 

From  every  battle-field  of  the  revolution — from  Lexington  and  Bunkof 
Hill — from  Saratoga  and  Yorktown — from  the  fields  of  Eutaw — from  tho 
cttne-brakes  that  sheltered  the  men  of  Marion — the  repeated,  long- 
p-jlonged  echoes  came  up — (/.)  "  The  Union  :  it  must  3e  pbeserved." 
(<C)  From  every  valley  in  our  land — from  every  cabin  on  the  pleasant 
mountain  sides — from  the  ships  at  our  wharves — from  the  tents  of  the 
hunter  in  our  westernmost  prairies — from  the  living  minds  of  the  living 
millions  of  American  freemen — from  the  thickly  coming  glories  of  futu> 
fity — the  shout  went  up,  like  the  sound  of  many  waters,  (jf.)  "THE 
UNION:   IT  MUST  BE  PRESERVED."  bauceoft. 

(p.)  Hark ! 

(si.)         Along  the  vales  and  mountains  of  the  earth 
(o)  There  is  a  deep,  portentous  murmuring, 

(=s)         Like  the  swift  rush  of  subterranean  streams, 

Or  like  the  mingled  sounds  of  earth  and  air, 

When  the  fierce  tempest,  with  sonorous  wing, 

Heaves  his  deep  folds  upon  the  rushing  winds, 
r<^)        And  hurries  onward,  with  his  night  of  clouds, 

Against  the  eternal  mountains.     'Tis  the  voice 

Of  infant  Freedom, — and  her  stirring  call 

Is  heard  and  answered  in  a  thousand  tones 
(<^)        From  every  hill-top  of  her  western  home ; 

And  lo !  it  breaks  across  old  Ocean's  flood, — 
(°°)  And  "Freedom!  Freedom!"  is  the  answering  shout 

Of  nations,  starting  from  the  spell  of  years,     a.  d.  prbmtiok 

r^)  The  thunders  hushed, — 

The  trembling  lightning  fled  away  in  fear,-  < 

(p.)  The  foam-capt  surges  sunk  to  quiet  rest, — 

The  raging  winds  grew  still, — 

(pp.)  There  was  a  calm. 

('/**/)         "Quick!     Man  the  boat!"     (=)  Away  they  spring 

The  stranger  ship  to  aid, 
(/.)  And  loud  their  hailing  voices  ring. 

As  rapid  speed  they  made. 


RHETORICAL    tiKAVtlA.  43 

{p.)  Hush  !  lightly  tread !  still  tranquilly  she  sleeps ; 

I've  watched,  suspending  e'en  my  breath,  in  fear 
To  break  the  heavenly  spell,     (pp-)  Move  silently. 

Can  it  be  ? 
Matter  immortal  ?  and  shall  spirit  die  ? 
Above  the  nobler,  shall  less  nobler  rise  ? 
(^)  Shall  man  alone,  for  whom  all  else  revives, 

No  resui-rection  know  ?     (°<C)  Shall  man  alone, 

Imperial  man !  be  sown  in  barren  ground, 

Less  privileged  than  grain,  on  which  he  feeds  ?       yoosq 

(•■=)  Away !  away  to  the  mountain's  brow, 

Where  the  trees  are  gently  waving ; 
(£)  Away !  away  to  the  vale  below, 

Where  the  streams  are  gently  laving. 

An  hour  passed  on ; — the  Turk  awoke ; — 

That  bright  dream  was  his  last ; — 
He  woke — to  hear  his  sentry's  slu'iek, 
(°o)  "To  ARMS  !  they  come!  (ff.)  the  Greek!  the  Greek  1" 

(pi.)        He  woke — to  die,  midst  flame  and  smoke, 
And  shout,  and  groan,  and  saber-stroke. 
And  death-shots  falling  thick  and  fast 
As  lightnings  from  the  mountain  cloud; 
And  heard,  with  voice  as  trumpet  loud, 
Bozzaris  cheer  his  band  ; — 
e*)  "  Strike — till  the  last  armed  foe  expires  I 

Strike — for  your  altars  and  your  fires ! 
Strike — for  the  green  graves  of  your  sires  I 
God,  and  your  native  land!"  hallbok. 

He  said,  and  on  the  rampart  hights  arrayed 

His  trusty  warriors,  few,  but  undismayed ; 
(«Z.)  Firm-paced  and  slow,  a  horrid  front  they  form, 

(pp.)  Still  as  the  breeze,  (qq)  but  dreadful  as  the  storm! 

(Pq)  Low,  murmuring  sounds  along  their  banners  fly, 

(ff.)  Revenge,  or  death  ! — the  watchword  and  reply ; 

(o°)  Then  pealed  the  notes,  omnipotent  to  charm, 

(/.)  And  the  loud  tocsin  tolled  their  last  alarm !        oampbell. 

(*■)  His  speech  was  at  first  low-toned  and  slow.  Sometimes  his 
voice  would  deepen,  (qq)  like  the  sound  of  distant  thunder ;  and  anon, 
('^)  his  flashes  of  wit  and  enthusiasm  would  light  up  the  anxious  faces 
of  his  hearers,  (<C)  like  the  far-off"  lightning  of  a  coming  storm. 


44  SANDERS'     UNION    SERIES. 

(^)  Receding  now,  the  dying  numbers  ring 

{p.)  Fainter  and  fainter,  down  the  rugged  dell: 

(pp-)         And  now — 'tis  silent  all — enchantress,  fare  thee  welL 

(=)  Oh,  joy  to  the  world!  the  hour  is  come, 

When  the  nations  to  freedom  awake, 
When  the  royalists  stand  agape  and  dumb, 

And  monarchs  with  terror  shake ! 
Over  the  walls  of  majesty, 

**  Upharsin"  is  writ  in  words  of  fire, 
And  the  eyes  of  the  bondmen,  wherever  they  be, 
Are  lit  with  their  wild  desire. 
r^)  Soon,  soon  shall  the  thrones  that  blot  the  world, 

Like  the  Orleans,  into  the  dust  be  hurl'd, 
And  the  worli  roll  on,  like  a  hurricane's  breath. 
Till  the  farthest  nation  hears  what  it  saith, — 
(/.;  "ARISE!   ARISE  I   BE  FREE!"  t.  b.  B»iJ>. 

^#•^  Tread  soTtly — bow  the  head, — 

In  reverent  silence  bow, — 
No  passing  bell  doth  toll, — 
(pi.)  Yet  an  immortal  soul 

Is  passing  now.  mbs.  southet. 

(*)  Speak  out,  my  firiends ;  would  you  exchange  it  for  the  demon'i 
DRINK,  (jf.)  ALCOHOL?  A  shout,  like  the  roar  of  a  tempest,  an- 
swered, (°°)  NO  I 

(®®)  The  combat  deepens!     (ff.)  On!  ye  beavbI 

(=r)  Who  rush  to  gloey,  (p.)  or  the  geave  1 

(ff.)  Wave,  Munich,  all  thy  banners  wave  ! 

And  CHAEGB  with  all  thy  Chivalry  ! 
(pi.)  Ah!  few  shall  part  where  many  meet ! 

The  snow  shall  be  their  winding  sheet. 

And  every  turf  beneath  their  feet 
(*)  Shall  be  a  soldier's  sepulcher !  oampbbll 

{si.)   At  length,  o'er  Columbus  slow  consciousness  breaks, 

(oo)     "Land!    land!"   cry  the   sailors;    (ff.)    "land!    land!"— h« 

awakes, — 
('^)    Reruns, — yes!  behold  it  I  it  blesseth  his  sight! 
The  land  !   O,  dear  aptctacle  I  transport  1  delight  I 


RHETORICAL    READER.  45 

SECTION  V. 

THE   KHETORICAL   PAUSE. 

Rhetorical  Pauses  are  those  which  are  frequently 
required  by  the  voice  in  reading  and  speaking,  although 
the  construction  of  the  passage  admits  of  no  grammatical 
point. 

These  pauses  should  be  as  manifest  to  the  ear  as  those  which 

are  indicated  b}  the  comma,  semicolon,  or  other  grammatical 
point,  though  not  commonly  denoted  by  any  visible  sign.  In  the 
following  examples  they  are  denoted  thus,  (  ||  ). 


1,  In  slumbers  of  midnight  ||  the  sailor-boy  lay, 

His  hammock  swung  loose  ||  at  the  bport  of  the  wind ; 
But  watch-worn  and  weary,  j|  his  cares  flew  away, 

And  visions  of  happiness  ||  danced  o'er  his  mind.       dimond. 

2.  There  is  a  land,||  of  every  land  the  pride, 
Beloved  of  heaven  ||  o'er  all  the  world  beside ; 
Where  brighter  suns  ||  dispense  serener  light, 
And  milder  moons  ||  imparadise  the  night. 

0,  thou  shalt  find,||  howe'er  thy  footsteps  roam, 
That  land  thy  country,  ||  and  that  spot  thy  home  I 

This  pause  is  generally  made  before  or  after  the  utterance 
of  some  important  word  or  clause,  on  which  it  is  especially 
desired  to  fix  the  attention.  In  such  cases  it  is  usually  denoted 
by  the  use  of  the  dash  ( — ). 

EXAMPLES. 

1  GcdB&ii— *' Let  there  be  liffhtr 

2  All  dead  and  silent  was  the  earth, 

In  deepest  night  it  lay  ; 
The  Eternal  spoke  creation's  word, 
And  called  to  being — Day  I 


46  SANDERS'     UNION    SERIES. 

No  definite  rule  can  be  given  with  reference  to  the  length  of 
the  rhetorical,  or  grammatical  pause.  The  correct  taste  of  the 
reader  or  speaker  must  determine  it.  For  the  voice  should 
sometimes  be  suspended  much  longer  at  the  same  pause  in  one 
situation  than  in  another ;  as  in  the  two  following 

EXAMPLES. 
LONG   PAUSE. 

Pause  a  moment.  I  heard  a  footstep.  Listen  now.  I  heard  it 
again ;  but  it  is  going  from  us.  It  sounds  fainter, — still  fainter 
It  is  gone. 

SHORT   PAUSE. 

John,  be  quick.  Get  some  water.  Throw  the  powder  overboard. 
*'It  can  not  be  reached."  Jump  into  the  boat,  then.  Shove  ofi.  There 
goes  the  powder.     Thank  Heaven.     We  are  safe. 


REMARKS  TO  TEACHERS. 

It  is  of  the  utmost  importance,  in  order  to  secure  an  easy  ana 
elegant  style  in  reading,  to  refer  the  pupil  often  to  the  more 
important  principles  involved  in  a  just  elocution.  To  this  end, 
it  will  be  found  very  advantageous,  occasionally  to  review  the 
rules  and  directions  given  in  the  preceding  pages,  and  thus 
early  accustom  him  to  apply  them  in  the  subsequent  reading 
lessons.  For  a  wider  range  of  examples  and  illustrations,  it  is 
only  necessary  to  refer  to  the  numerous  and  various  exercises 
which  form  the  body  of  this  book.  They  have  been  selected, 
in  many  cases,  with  a  special  view  to  this  object. 


SANDEES' 

RHETORICAL    READER. 


PART    SECOND. 

EXERCISE  I. 

John  Ruskin  was  born  in  London  in  the  year  1819.  In  1843  he  publisbetl 
a  work,  under  the  title  of  "Modern  Painters,"  in  which  ho  advocates  the  claims 
of  the  moderns  over  the  ancients  to  superiority  in  the  art  of  Landscape 
Painting.  In  that  work  he  deals,  in  the  most  trenchant  way,  with  what  aro 
considered  the  highest  authorities  in  artj  yet  such  is  the  brilliancy  of  hia 
diction,  and  such  his  power  in  description,  that,  though  he  often  fails  to 
secure  for  his  views  the  assent  of  professed  judges,  he  never  fails  to  challenge 
the  admiration  of  all  by  the  splendor  of  his  style.  He  has  published  quite  a 
number  of  works  since,  and  is  still  devoted  to  the  study  of  art. 

THE  SKY. 

JOHN  RtJSKllf. 

1.  It  is  a  strango  thing  how  little  in  general  people  know 
about  the  sky.  It  is  the  part  of  creation  in  which  Nature  has 
done  more  for  the  sake  of  pleasing  man,  more  for  the  sole  and 
ev^idsnt  purpose  of  talking  to  him  and  teaching  him,  than  in 
any  other  of  her  works,  and  it  is  just  the  part  in  which  we  least 
attend  to  her. 

2.  There  are  not  many  of  her  other  works  in  which  some 
more  material  or  essential  purpose  than  the  mere  pleasing  of 
man  is  not  answered  by  every  part  of  their  organization ;  but 
fivery  essential  purpose  of  the  sky  might,  so  far  as  we  know,  be 
answered,  if  once  in  three  days,  or  thereabouts,  a  great,  ugly, 
black  rain-cloud  were  brought  up  over  the  blue,  and  everything 
well  watered,  and  so  all  left  blue  again  till  next  time,  with, 
perhaps,  a  film  of  morning  and  evening  mist  for  dew. 

v47^ 


48  SANDERS'     UNION    SERIES. 

8.  And,  instead  of  this,  there  is  not  a  moment  of  any  day  of 
our  lives,  when  Nature  is  not  producing  scene  after  scene, 
picture  after  picture,  glory  after  glory,  and  working  still  upon 
su'jh  exquisite  and  constant  principles  of  the  most  perfect 
beauty,  that  it  is  quite  certain  it  is  all  done  for  us,  and  intended 
for  our  perpetual  pleasure.  And  every  man,  wherever  placed, 
however  far  from  other  sources  of  interest  or  of  beauty,  has  this 
doing  for  him  constantly. 

4.  The  noblest  scenes  of  the  earth  can  be  seen  and  known 
Dut  by  few ;  it  is  not  intended  that  man  should  live  always  in 
the  midst  of  them  j  he  injures  them  by  his  presence;  he  ceases 
to  feel  them,  if  he  be  always  with  them;  but  the  sky  is  for  all; 
bright  as  it  is,  it  is  not  "  too  bright,  nor  good,  for  human 
nature's  daily  food;"  it  is  fitted  in  all  its  functions  for  the 
perpetual  comfort  and  exalting  of  the  heart,  for  the  soothing  it 
and  purifying  it  from  its  dross  and  dust. 

5.  Sometimes  gentle,  sometimes  capricious,  sometimes  awful, 
aever  the  same  for  two  moments  together ;  almost  human  in  its 
passions,  almost  spiritual  in  its  tenderness,  almost  divine  in  its 
infinity,  its  appeal  to  what  is  immortal  in  us,  is  as  distinct,  as 
its  ministry  of  chastisement  or  of  blessing  to  what  is  mortal  is 
essential. 

6.  And  yet  we  never  attend  to  it,  we  never  make  it  a  subject 
of  thought,  but  as  it  has  to  do  with  our  animal  sensations ;  we 
look  upon  all  by  which  it  speaks  to  us  more  clearly  than  to 
brutes,  upon  all  which  bears  witness  to  the  intention  of  the 
Supreme,  that  we  are  to  receive  more  from  the  covering  vault 
than  the  light  and  the  dew  which  we  share  with  the  weed  and 
the  worm,  only  as  a  succession  of  meaningless  and  monotonous 
accidents,  too  common  and  too  vain  to  be  worthy  of  a  moment 
of  watchfulness,  or  a  glance  of  admiration. 

7.  If,  in  our  moments  of  utter  idleness  and  insipidity,  we  turn 
to  the  sky,  as  a  last  resource,  which  of  its  phenomena  do  we 
speak  of?  One  says  it  has  been  wet,  and  another  it  has  been 
windy,  and  another  it  has  been  warm.  Who,  among  the  whole 
chattering  crowd,  can  tell  me  of  the  forms  and  the  precipices 
of  the  chain  of  tall  white  mountains  that  girded  the  horizon  at 


RHETORICAL    READER.  19 

noon  yesterday?  Who  saw  the  narrow  sunbeam  that  came  out 
of  the  south  and  smote  upon  their  summits  until  they  melted 
and  moldered  away  in  a  dust  of  blue  rain  ?  Who  saw  the 
dance  of  the  clouds  when  the  sunlight  left  them  last  night,  and 
the  west  wind  blew  them  before  it  like  withered  leaves  ? 

8  All  has  passed,  unregretted  as  unseen ;  or,  if  the  apathy 
be  ever  shaken  off,  even  for  an  instant,  it  is  only  by  what  is 
gross  or  what  is  extraordinary ;  and  yet  it  is  not  in  the  broad 
and  fierce  manifestations  of  the  elemental  energies,  not  in  the 
clash  of  the  hail,  nor  the  drift  of  the  whirlwind,  that  the  highest 
ahafacters  of  the  sublime  are  developed.  God  is  not  in  the 
earthquake,  nor  in  the  fire,  but  in  the  still,  small  voice.  They 
are  but  the  blunt  and  lost  faculties  of  our  nature,  which  can 
only  be  addressed  through  lampblack  and  lightning. 

9.  It  is  in  quiet  and  subdued  passages  of  unobtrusive  majesty, 
the  deep,  and  the  calm,  and  the  perpetual, — that  which  must 
be  sought  ere  it  is  seen,  and  loved  ere  it  is  understood, — things 
which  the  angels  work  out  for  us  daily,  and  yet  vary  eternally, 
which  are  never  wanting,  and  never  repeated,  which  are  to  be 
found  always,  yet  each  found  but  once, — it  is  through  these  that 
the  lesson  of  devotion  is  chiefly  taught,  and  the  blessing  of 
beauty  given. 

10.  These  are  what  the  artist  of  highest  aim  must  study ;  it 
is  these,  by  the  combination  of  which  his  ideal  is  to  be  created ; 
these  of  which  so  little  notice  is  ordinarily  taken  by  common 
observers,  that  I  fully  believe,  little  as  people  in  general  are 
concerned  with  art,  more  of  their  ideas  of  sky  are  derived  from 
pictures  than  from  reality,  and  that,  if  we  could  examine  the 
conception  formed  in  the  minds  of  most  educated  persons  when 
we  talk  of  clouds,  it  would  frequently  be  found  composed  of 
fragments  of  blue  and  white  reminiscences  of  the  old  mastera 

11.  "  The  chasm  of  sky  above  my  head 

Is  Heaven's  profoundest  azure.     No  domain 
For  fickle,  short-lived  clouds,  to  occupy, 
Or  to  pass  through  ;  but  rather  an  abytt 
In  which  the  everlasting  stars  abide, 

3  6R 


56  SANDERS'     UNION    SERIES. 

And  whose  soft  gloom,  and  boundless  depth,  might  tempt 
The  curious  eye  to  look  for  them  bj  day." 

12  In  his  American  Notes,  I  remember  Dickens  notices  the 
same  truth,  describing  himself  as  lying  drowsily  on  the  barge 
deck,  looking  not  at^  but  ihrouyh  the  sky.  And,  if  you  look 
intensely  at  the  pure  blue  of  a  serene  sky,  j'ou  will  see  thai 
thei-c  is  a  Tariety  and  fullness  in  its  /ery  repose.  It  is  not  that 
flat,  d  3ad  color,  but  a  deep^  quivering,  transparent  body  of  pene- 
trable air,  in  which  you  trace  or  imagine  short,  falling  spots  of 
deceiving  light,  and  dim  shades,  faint,  vailed  vestiges  of  dark 
vapor. 

13.  It  seems  to  me  that,  in  the  midst  of  the  material  nearness 
of  the  heavens,  God  means  us  to  acknowledge  His  own  immediate 
presence  as  visiting,  judging,  and  blessing  us.  "The  earth 
shook,  the  heavens  also  dropped,  at  the  presence  of  God  V 
"  He  doth  set  His  bow  in  the  cloud,  "  and  thus  renews,  in 
the  sound  of  every  dropping  swathe  of  rain,  His  promises  of 
everlasting  love.  "  In  them  huth  He  set  a  tabernacle  for  the 
sun )"  whose  burning  ball,  which,  without  the  firmament,  would 
be  seen  as  an  intolerable  and  scorching  circle  in  the  blackness 
of  vacuity,  is  by  that  firmament  surrounded  with  gorgeous 
service,  and  tempered  by  mediatorial  ministries ;  by  the  firma- 
ment of  clouds  the  golden  pavement  is  spread  for  his  chariot 
wheels  at  morning ;  by  the  firmament  of  clouds  the  temple  is 
built  for  his  presence  to  fill  with  light  at  noon  j  by  the  firmament 
of  clouds  the  purple  vail  is  closed  at  evening  round  the  sanctuary 
of  his  rest  j  by  the  mists  of  the  firmament  his  implacable  light 
is  divided,  and  its  separated  fierceness  appeased  into  the  soft 
blue  that  fills  the  depth  of  distance  with  its  bloom,  and  the  flush 
with  which  the  mountains  burn  as  they  drink  the  overflowing 
of  the  dayspring. 

14.  And,  in  this  tabernacling  of  the  unendurable  sun  witli 
men,  through  the  shadows  of  the  firmament,  God  would  seem 
to  set  forth  the  stooping  of  His  own  majesty  to  men,  upon  the 
throne  of  the  firmament.  As  the  Creator  of  all  the  worlds,  and 
the  Inhabitei  of  eternity,  we  can  not  behold   Him ;  but  as  the 


RHIJTORICAL    READER.  61 

Judge  of  tire  earth  and  the  Preserver  of  men,  ihose  heavens 
are,  indeed,  His  dwelling-place.  "  Swear  not,  neither  by  heaven, 
for  it  is  God's  throne;  nor  by  the  earth,  for  it  His  footstool." 
And  all  those  passings  to  and  fro  of  fruitful  shower  and  grateful 
"ihade,  and  all  those  visions  of  silver  palaces  built  about  the 
horizon,  and  voices  of  moaning  winds  and  threatening  thunderSj 
and  glories  of  colored  robe  and  cloven  ray,  are  but  to  deepen  in 
our  hearts  the  acceptance,  and  distinctness,  and  dearness  of  the 
simph  words, — "  Our  Father  which  art  in  Heaven  !" 


EXERCISE  II. 

Joseph  Addison,  author  of  the  following  beautiful  lines,  was  born  at 
Milston,  Wiltshire,  in  England,  in  the  year  1672.  He  died  in  1719.  For  a 
iketch  of  his  character,  see  Exercise  CXXIII. 

THE  HEAVENS  DECLARE  THE  GLORY  OP  GOD. 

«3>I>IB0B 
I. 

The  spacious  firmament  on  high, 

With  all  the  blue  ethereal  sky. 

And  spangled  heavens,  a  shining  frame, 

Their  great  Original  proclaim  j 

Th'  unwearied  sun,  from  day  to  day, 

Poes  his  Creator's  power  display, 

And  publishes  to  every  land 

The  work  of  un  Almighty  hand. 

II. 

Soon  as  the  evening  shades  prevail, 
The  MOON  takes  up  the  wondrous  tale, 
And  nightly  to  the  listening  earth, 
Repeats  the  story  of  her  birth ; 
While  all  the  stars  that  round  her  burn, 
And  all  the  planets  in  their  turn. 


b2  SANDERS'     UNION    SERIES. 

Confirm  the  tidings  as  tliey  roll, 

And  spread  the  truth  from  pole  to  pold. 

III. 

What  though,  in  solemn  silence, all 
Move  round  the  dark  terrestrial  ball  ? 
What  though  no  real  voice  or  sound 
Amid  their  radiant  orbs  be  found  ? 
In  Reason's  ear  they  all  rejoice, 
And  utter  forth  a  glorious  voice, 
Forever  singing  as  they  shine, 
"  TJie  Hand  that  made  us,  is  divine  !** 


EXERCISE  III. 

OnvEF  Goldsmith  was  born  in  the  county  of  Longford,  Ireland,  in  thf 
year  1728,  and  died  in  London,  in  1774.  *•  There  are  few  writers,"  eayi 
Washington  Irving,  "  for  whom  the  reader  feels  such  personal  kindness  u 
Tor  Oliver  Goldsmith.  The  fascinating  ease  and  simplicity  of  his  style  j  th« 
benevolence  that  beams  through  every  page ;  the  whimsical,  yet  amiable  view 
of  human  life  and  human  nature;  the  mellow  unforced  humor,  blended  so 
happily  with  good  feeling  and  good  sense,  throughout  his  writings,  win  their 
way  irresistibly  to  the  affections,  and  carry  the  author  with  them.  While 
writers  of  greater  pretensions  and  more  sounding  names  are  suffered  to  lie 
upon  our  shelves,  the  works  of  Goldsmith  are  cherished  and  laid  in  our 
bosoms.  We  do  not  quote  them  with  ostentation,  but  they  mingle  with  our 
minds  ;  they  sweeten  our  tempers  and  harmonize  our  thoughts ;  they  put  us 
In  good  humor  with  ourselves  and  with  the  world;  and,  in  doing  so,  they 
nake  us  happier  and  better  men." 

1  Al'^legory  is  a  word  of  Greek  origin.  It  is  made  up  of  two  parts, 
All,  other,  and  Euory,  discourse:  the  literal  meaning  of  the  compound 
being  discourse  about  other  things,  that  is,  things  other  than  those  ex- 
pressed by  the  words,  literally  interpreted  Thus,  in  the  LXXX  Psalm, 
we  have  a  beautiful  allegory,  in  wnich  the  chosen  people  of  God  are 
represented  under  the  figure  of  a  vine  planted  and  nurtured  by  the 
hand  of  the  Almighty. 

Allegory  is,  therefore,  the  general  name  for  that  class  of  compositions, 
as  Fables,  Apologues,  Parables,  and  Myths,  in  which  there  is  a  drablt 
signification,    one    literal   and   the   other  figurative:    the    literal    being 


EHET0R1CA.LREADEE.  53 

designed  merely  to  givo  a  more  clear  and  impressive  view  of  that  which 
is  figurative.  It  is,  indeed,  a  lively,  though  silent  comparison,  or  series  of 
comparisons ;  diflering  from  what  la  called  metaphor,  or  implied  compan 
son,  merely  in  being  more  exieiided.  Thus,  Bunyan's  Pilgrim's  Progress  if 
ftn  allegory. 

GRACE  PREFERABLE  TO  BEAUTY:— An  Allegory. i 

OLrVER  OOLDSHITB. 

1.  T  fan(3ied  myself  between  two  landscapes;  this  called  the 
Region  of  Beauty,  and  that  the  Valley  of  the  Graces ;  the  one 
adorned  with  all  that  luxuriant  nature  could  bestow ;  the  fruits 
of  various  climates  adorned  the  trees,  the  grove  resounded  with 
music,  the  gale  breathed  perfume,  every  charm  that  could  arise 
from  symmetry  and  exact  Jistribution,  was  here  conspicuous; 
the  whole  offering  a  prospect  of  pleasure  without  end. 

2.  The  Valley  of  the  Graces,  on  the  other  hand,  seemed,  by 
no  means,  so  inviting;  the  streams  and  groves  appeared  just  as 
they  usually  do  in  frequented  countries ;  no  magnificent  parterres,* 
no  concert  in  the  grove,  the  rivulet  was  edged  with  weeds,  and 
the  rook  joined  its  voice  to  that  of  the  nightingale.  All  was 
simplicity  and  nature. 

3.  The  most  striking  objects  ever  first  allure  the  traveler.  I 
entered  the  llegion  of  Beauty  with  increased  curiosity,  and 
promised  myself  endless  satisfaction  in  being  introduced  to  the 
presiding  goddess.  I  perceived  several  strangers  who  entered 
with  the  sariie  design ;  and  what  surprised  me  not  a  little,  was 
to  see  several  others  hastening  to  leave  this  abode  of  seeming 
felicity. 

4.  After  some  fatigue,  I  had,  at  last,  the  honor  of  being  intro- 
duced to  the  goddess,  who  represented  Beauty  in  person.  She 
was  seated  on  a  throne,  at  the  foot  of  which  stood  several 
strangers,  lately  introduced  like  me ;  all  regarding  her  form  in 
ecstasy.  "  Ah^  v^hat  eyts !  what  lips !  how  clear  her  complexion  I 
how  perfect  her  shape  !'*  At  these  exclamations.  Beauty,  with 
downcast  eyes,  would  endeavor  to  counterfeit  modesty,  but  soon 
again   looking  round  as  if  to  confirm  every  spectator  in  his 

*  I'ar  terrea'  \  vdr  tdres^X  flower-beds. 


54  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES. 

favorable  sentiments  :  sometimes  she  would  attempt  to  allure  ii« 
by  smiles ;  and,  at  intervals,  would  bridle  back,  in  order  to 
inspire  us  with  respect  as  well  as  tenderness. 

5.  This  ceremony  lasted  for  some  time,  and  had  so  much 
employed  our  eyes,  that  we  had  forgot  all  this  while  that  the 
goddess  was  silent.  We  soon,  however,  began  to  perceive  the 
defect.  "  What  V  said  we  among  each  other,  "  are  we  to  have 
-notbing  but  languishing  airs,  soft  looks,  and  inclinations  of  the 
head  ?  will  the  goddess  only  deign  to  satisfy  our  eyes  V  Upon 
this,  one  of  the  company  stepped  up  to  present  her  with  some 
fruits  he  had  gathered  by  the  way.  She  received  the  present, 
most  sweetly  smiling,  and  with  one  of  the  whitest  hands  in  the 
world,  but  still  not  a  word  escaped  her  lips. 

6.  I  now  found  that  my  companions  grew  weary  of  their  hom- 
age; they  went  off  one  by  one,  and,  resolving  not  to  be  left 
behind,  I  offered  to  go  in  my  turnj  when,  just  at  the  door  of 
the  temple,  1  was  called  back  by  a  female,  whose  name  was 
Pride,  and  who  seemed  displeased  at  the  behavior  of  the  com- 
pany. 

7.  "  Where  are  you  hastening  T'  said  she  to  me  with  an  angry 
air ;  "  the  goddess  of  Beauty  is  here."  "  I  have  been  to  visit 
her,  madam,"  replied  I,  "  and  find  her  more  beautiful  even  than 
report  had  made  her."  "  And  why,  then,  will  you  leave  her  ?" 
added  the  female.  "  I  have  seen  her  long  enough,"  returned 
I J  "I  have  got  all  her  features  by  heart.  Her  eyes  are  still 
the  same  Her  nose  is  a  very  fine  one,  but  it  is  such  a  nose  now 
as  it  was  half  an  hour  ago :  could  she  throw  a  little  more  mind 
into  her  face,  perhaps  I  should  be  for  wishing  to  have  a  little 
more  of  her  company." 

8.  "  What  signifies,"  replied  the  female,  in  an  animated  tone, 
"  whether  she  has  a  mind  or  not ;  has  she  any  occasion  for  a 
mind,  s  >  formed  as  she  is  by  nature  ?  If  she  had  a  common 
face,  indeed,  there  might  be  some  reason  for  thinking  to  improve 
it;  but,  when  features  are  already  perfect,  every  alteration  would 
but  impair  them.  A  fine  face  is  already  at  the  point  of  per^ 
fection,  and  a  fine  lady  should  endeavor  to  keep  it  so :  the  im- 
pression it  would  receive  from  thought,  would  but  disturb  ita 


RHETORICAL    READER. 


55 


»7liole  economy."  To  this  speech  T  made  no  reply,  but  made 
the  best  of  my  way  to  the  Valley  of  the  Grraces.  Here  I  found 
all  those  who  before  had  been  my  companions  in  the  Region  of 
Beauty,  now  upon  the  same  errand. 

9.  As  we  entered  the  valley,  the  prospect  insensibly  seemed 
to  improve ;  we  found  everything  so  natural,  so  domestic  and 
pleasing,  that  our  minds,  which  before  were  congealed  in  admi- 
ration,  now  relaxed  into  gayety  and  good  humor.  We  had  de 
signed  to  pay  our  respects  to  the  presiding  goddess,  but  she  was 
nowhere  to  be  found.  One  of  our  companions  asserted,  that 
her  temple  lay  to  the  right;  another,  to  the  left;  a  third  insisted 
that  it  was  straight  before  us;  and  a  fourth  that  we  had  left  it 
behind.  In  short,  we  found  everything  familiar  and  charming, 
but  could  not  determine  where  to  seek  for  the  Grace  in  person. 

10.  In  this  agreeable  incertitude  we  passed  several  hours,  and, 
though  very  desirous  of  finding  the  goddess,  by  no  means  im- 
patient of  the  delay.  Every  part  of  the  valley  presented  some 
minute  beauty,  which,  without  offering  itself,  at  once  stole  upon 
the  soul  and  captivated  us  with  the  charms  of  our  retreat. 
Still,  however,  we  continued  to  search,  and  might  still  have 
continued,  had  we  not  been  interrupted  by  a  voice  which,  though 
we  could  not  see  from  whence  it  came,  addressed  us  in  this 
manner. 

11.  "If  you  would  find  the  goddess  of  Grace,  seek  her  not 
under  one  form,  for  she  assumes  a  thousand.  Ever  changing 
under  the  eye  of  inspection,  her  variety,  rather  than  her  figure, 
is  pleasing.  In  contemplating  her  beauty,  the  eye  glides  over 
every  perfection  with  giddy  delight,  and,  capable  of  fixing  no- 
where, is  charmed  with  the  whole.  She  is  now  Contemplation 
with  solemn  look,  again  Compassion  with  humid  eyes;  she  no 
sparkles  with  Joy,  soon  every  feature  speaks  Distress :  her  looks 
at  times,  invite  our  approach,  at  others,  repress  our  presumption 
the  goddess  can  not  be  properly  called  beautiful  under  any  ;me 
)f  these  forms,  but,  by  combining  them  all,  she  becomes  irre- 
listibly  pleasing." 


56  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES. 


EXERCISE  IV. 

Herrt  Wadsworth  Lokgpellow,  one  of  the  most  eminent  poets  of  Amer- 
ica, was  born  in  Portland,  Maine,  Feb.  27th,  1807.  He  is  still  living.  Foi 
a  skstch  of  him,  see  Exercise  XXIII. 

'  Tal^mud  is  ft  Hebrew  word  meaning  doctrine,  ft  is  the  name  ap- 
plied to  a  work  containing  a  vast  number  of  traditions  respecting  the 
usages  and  laws  of  the  Jewish  people.  The  law,  among  that  people, 
was  divided  into  the  written  and  the  unwritten.  The  written  law  em- 
braced the  five  books  of  Moses ;  tne  tinwritten  was  handed  down  orally  : 
the  oral  being,  in  fact,  explanatory  of  the  written.  But,  in  time,  the 
oral  came,  also,  to  be  put  in  writing,  and  formed  the  text  of  the  Talmud. 
This  was  first  done,  it  is  believed,  about  the  year  200.  There  are  two 
separate  commentaries  on  this  text,  which  are  distinguished  respectively, 
as  the  Babylonian  and  the  Jerusalem. 

'  Le''oknd  or  Leo^knu  (in  Latin  legendiim)  is,  literally,  a  thing  to  he 
read,  that  is,  worth  reading.  The  primary  application  of  the  term,  how- 
ever, was  to  tales  of  a  fictitious  character,  founded  on  ecclesiastical 
tradition. 

»  Rab''bih  or  Rab''bi  is,  among  the  Hebrews,  a  title  equivalent  to 
our  word  Doctor,  Master,  or  Teacher. 

*  Medi  ^'val  is  compounded  of  two  Latin  words,  (Medius,  middle,  and 
^yuM,  age,)  and  signifies  pertaining  to  the  Middle  Ages. 

SANDALPHON. 

I. 

Have  you  read  in  the  Talmud*  of  old, 
In  the  Legends"  the  Eabbins'  have  told 

Of  the  limitless  realms  of  the  air, — 
Have  you  read  it, — the  marvelous  story 
Of  Sandalphon,  the  Angel  of  Glory, 

Sandalphon,  the  Angel  of  Prayer  ? 

II. 

How,  erect,  at  the  outermost  gates 
Of  the  City  Celestial  he  waits, 

With  his  feet  on  the  ladder  of  light, 


RHETORICAL    READER.  M 

That,  crowded  with  angels  unnumbered, 
By  Jacob  was  seen,  as  he  slumbered 
Alone  in  the  desert  at  night  ? 

ni. 

The  Angels  of  Wind  and  of  Fire 
Chant  only  one  hymn,  and  expire 

With  the  song's  irresistible  stress; 
Expire  in  their  rapture  and  wonder, 
As  harp-strings  are  broken  asunder 

By  music  they  throb  to  express. 

IV. 

But  serene  in  the  rapturous  throng, 
Unmoved  by  the  rush  of  the  song, 

With  eyes  unimpassioned  and  slow, 
Among  the  dead  angels,  the  deathless 
Sandalphon  stands  listening  breathless 

To  sounds  that  ascend  from  below  j — 

"v. 

From  the  spirits  on  earth  that  adore, 
From  the  souls  that  entreat  and  implore 

In  the  fervor  and  passion  of  prayer  j 
From  the  hearts  that  are  broken  with  losses, 
And  weary  with  dragging  the  crosses 

Too  heavy  for  mortals  to  bear. 

VI. 

And  he  gathers  the  prayers  as  he  stands. 
And  they  change  into  flowers  in  his  hands, 

Into  garlands  of  purple  and  red ; 
And  beneath  the  great  arch  of  the  portal, 
Through  the  streets  of  the  City  Immortal 

Is  wafted  the  fragrance  they  shed 
3*  5R 


i8  SANDERS      UNION    8ER7E8. 

VII. 

It  is  but  a  legend  I  know, — 
A  fable,  a  phantom,  a  show, 

Of  the  ancient  Rabbinical  lore ; 
Yet  the  old  mediaBval*  tradition, 
The  beautiful,  strange  superstition. 

But  haunts  me  and  holds  me  the  mora 

vni. 

When  I  look  from  my  window  at  night, 
And  the  welkin  above  is  all  white. 

All  throbbing  and  panting  with  stars, 
Among  them  majestic  is  standing 
Sandalphon  the  angel,  expanding 

His  pinions  in  nebulous  bars. 

IX. 

And  the  legend,  I  feel,  is  a  part 

Of  the  hunger  and  thirst  of  the  heart, 

The  frenzy  and  fire  of  the  brain, 
That  grasps  at  the  fruitage  forbidden, 
The  golden  pomegranates  of  Eden, 

To  quiet  its  fever  and  pain. 


EXERCISE  V. 

JoHM  Greekleaf  Whittier,  author  of  the  following  beautiful  lines,  is  an 
eminent  American  poet  He  was  born  near  Haverhill,  in  Massachusetts,  ia 
the  year  180S. 

A  DREAM  OF  SUMMER. 

JOBS 
I. 

Bland  as  the  morning  breath  of  Juno 

The  south-west  breezes  play ; 
And,  through  its  haze,  the  winter  noon 

Seems  warm  as  summer's  day. 


^.RHETORICAL    READER.  58 

The  snow-plumed  Angel  of  the  North 

Has  dropped  his  icy  spear; 
Again  the  mossy  earth  looks  forth, 

Again  the  streams  gush  clear. 

II. 
The  fox  his  hill-side  cell  forsakes, 

The  mnskrat  leaves  his  nook, 
The  bluebird  in  the  meadow  brakes 

Is  singing  with  the  brook. 
"  Bear  up,  oh,  mother  Nature  !''  cry 

Bird,  breeze,  and  streamlet  free ; 
"  Our  winter  voices  prophesy 

Of  summer  days  to  thee  !" 

III. 

So,  in  those  winters  of  the  soul, 

By  bitter  blasts  and  drear 
O'erswept  from  Memory's  frozen  pole, 

Will  sunny  days  appear. 
Reviving  Hope  and  Faith,  they  show 

The  soul  its  living  powers. 
And  how  beneath  the  winter's  snow 

Lie  germs  of  summer  flowers  1 

The  Night  is  mother  of  the  Day, 

The  Winter  of  the  Spring, 
And  ever  upon  old  Decay 

The  greenest  mosses  cling. 
Behind  the  cloud  the  starlight  iurks. 

Through  showers  the  sunbeams  fall ; 
For  Grod,  who  loveth  all  His  works. 

Has  left  His  Hope  with  all. 


50  BANDERS'    UNION    SERIES. 


EXERCISE  VI. 

John  Wn.soif,  tho  celebrated  professor  of  Moral  Philosophy,  in  tlo  Uni- 
versity of  Edinburgh,  was  born  in  Paisley,  in  the  year  1788.  He  was  first 
distinguished  by  his  poetical  efiFusions.  Afterwards  he  became  far  more  so  l)y 
hia  writings  in  prose.  The  incident  related  in  the  exercise  following,  is  on« 
of  the  many  beautiful  and  impressive  things  found  in  his  famous  contribu- 
t,(  ns  to  Blackwood's  Magazine,  under  the  title  of  Christopher  North. 

THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  THUNDER-STORM. 

JOHN  WILSOH. 

1.  How  beautifully  emerges  that  sun-stricken  cottage  froiu 
the  rocks,  that  all  around  it  are  floating  in  a  blue  vapory  light! 
Were  we  so  disposed,  methinks  we  could  easily  write  a  little 
book  entirely  abouu  the  obscure  people  that  have  lived  and  died 
about  that  farm,  by  name  Logan  Braes.  Neither  is  it  without 
its  old  traditions.  One  May-day  long  ago — some  two  centuries 
since — that  rural  festival  was  there  interrupted  by  a  thunder- 
storm, and  the  party  of  youths  and  maidens,  driven  from  the 
budding  arbors,  were  all  assembled  in  the  ample  kitchen. 

2.  The  house  seemed  to  be  in  the  very  heart  of  the  thunder; 
and  the  master  began  to  read,  without  declaring  it  to  be  a  reli- 
gious service,  a  chapter  of  the  Bible;  but  the  frequent  flashes 
of  lightning  so  blinded  him,  that  he  was  forced  to  lay  down 
the  book,  and  all  then  sat  still  without  speaking  a  word;  many 
with  pale  faces,  and  none  without  a  mingled  sense  of  awe  and 
fear.  The  maiden  forgot  her  bashfulness  as  the  rattling  peals 
shook  the  roof-tree,  and  hid  her  face  in  her  lover's  bosom ;  the 
children  crept  closer  and  closer,  each  to  some  protecting  knee, 
and  the  dogs  came  all  into  the  house,  and  lay  down  in  dark 
places  Now  and  then  there  was  a  convulsive,  irrepressible,  but 
half-stifled  shriek — some  sobbed — and  a  loud  hysterical  laugh 
from  one  overcome  with  terror,  sounded  ghastly  between  the 
deepest  of  all  dread  repose — that  which  separates  one  peal  fi.m 
another,  when  the  flash  and  the  roar  are  as  one,  and  the  thick 
air  smells  of  sulphur. 

3.  The  body  feels  its  mortal  nature,  and  shrinks  as  if  about 
to  be  withered  into  nothing.    Now  the  muttering  thunder  seems 


RHETORICAL    READER.  61 

to  have  changed  its  place  t)  some  distant  cloud — now,  as  if  re- 
turning to  blast  those  Avhom  it  had  spared,  waxes  louder  and 
fiercer  than  before — till  the  great  tree  that  shelters  the  house 
is  shivered  with  a  noise  like  the  masts  of  a  ship  carried  away 
by  the  board. 

4.  '  Look!  father,  look! — see,  yonder  is  an  angel  all  in  white, 
descending  from  heaven  !"  said  little  Alice,  who  had  already 
hc3n  almost  in  the  attitude  of  prayer,  and  now  clasped  her  handa 
together  and  steadfastly,  and,  without  fear  of  the  lightning,  eyed 
the  sky  --"One  of  God's  holy  angels — one  of  those  who  sing 
bsfore  the  Lamb !"  And,  with  an  inspired  rapture,  the  fair  child 
sprung  to  her  feet.  "  See  ye  her  not — see  ye  her  not — father 
— mother  ?  Lo  !  she  beckons  to  me  with  a  palm  in  her  hand, 
like  one  of  the. palms  in  that  picture  in  our  Bible,  when  our 
Savior  is  entering  into  Jerusalem  !  There  she  comes,  nearer 
and  nearer  the  earth.  Oh !  pity,  forgive,  and  have  mercy  on 
me,  thou  most  beautiful  of  all  the  angels,  even  for  His  name's 
sake  \" 

5.  All  eyes  were  turned  towards  the  black  heavens,  and  then 
to  the  raving  child.  Her  mother  clasped  her  to  her  bosom, 
afraid  that  terror  had  turned  her  brain — and  her  father,  going 
to  the  door,  surveyed  an  ampler  spnce  of  the  sky.  She  flew  tr 
his  side,  and  clinging  to  him  again,  exclaimed  in  a  wild  outcry, — 
"  On  her  forehead  a  star !  on  her  forehead  a  star !  And,  oh !  on 
what  lovely  wings  she  is  floating  away,  away  into  eternity !  The 
angel,  father,  is  calling  me  by  my  Christian  name,  and  I  must 
no  more  abide  on  earth ;  but,  touching  the  hem  of  her  garment, 
be  wafted  away  to  heaven."  Sudden,  as  a  bird  let  loose  from 
the  hand  darted  the  maiden  from  her  father's  bosom,  and,  with 
her  face  upward  to  the  skies,  pursued  her  flight. 

6  Young  and  old  left  the  house,  and,  at  that  moment,  tha 
forked  lightning  came  from  the  crashing  cloud,  and  struck  the 
whoL  tenoment  into  ruins.  Not  a  hair  on  any  head  was  singed; 
and,  with  one  accord,  the  people  fell  down  upon  their  kneec. 
Ytoil.  the  eyes  of  the  child,  the  angel,  or  vision  of  the  angel, 
had  disappeared ;  but,  on  her  return  to  Heaven,  the  celestial 
heard  the  hymn  that  rose  from  those  that  were  saved,  and  above 


B2  SANDERS'     UNION      SERIES. 

all  the  voices,  the  small,  sweet,  silvery  voice  of  her  whose  eyea 
alone  were  worthy  of  beholding  a  saint  transfigured. 


EXERCISE  VII. 

Robert  Southet  was  born  in  Bristol,  England,  in  the  year  1774,  and  died 
It  1843.  He  is  distinguished  both  as  a  poet  and  as  a  prose  writer.  His 
wiitings  are  numerous.  The  following  humorous  tale  is  one  of  his  best 
piece*  in  this  line.  The  etory,  however,  is  not  original  with  him ;  but  thi« 
terse  >ply. 

ROPRECHT  THE  ROBBER. 

ABBXDOIP  raOK  BOtrrHXT. 

I. 

Roprecht  the  Robber  is  taken  at  last;* 

In  Cologne  they  have  him  fast; 

Trial  is  over,  and  sentence  past; 

And  hopes  of  escape  were  vain,  he  knew ; 

For  the  gallows  now  must  have  its  due. 

n. 

But  buried  Roprecht  must  not  be; 

He  is  to  be  left  on  the  triple  tree; 

That  they  who  pass  along,  may  spy 

Where  the  famous  robber  is  hanging  on  high. 

III. 
It  will  be  a  comfortable  sight 
To  see  him  there  by  day  and  by  night; 
For  Roprecht  the  Robber  many  a  year 
Had  kept  the  country  round  in  fear. 

IV. 

In  his  suit  of  irons  he  was  hung; 

They  sprinkled  him  then,  and  their  psalm  they  sungi 

And,  turning  away  when  this  duty  was  paid, 

Tliey  said, — "  What  a  goodly  end  he  had  mad«." 


BHETOEICAL    READER.  68 

V. 

The  crowd  broke  up,  and  went  their  way; 
All  were  gone  by  the  close  of  day; 
And  Roprecht  the  Robber  was  left  there 
Hanging  alone  in  the  moonlight  air. 

VI. 
The  stir  in  Cologne  is  greater  to-day 
Than  all  the  bustle  of  yesterday; 
Hundreds  and  thousands  went  out  to  see; 
The  irons  and  chains,  as  well  as  he, 
Were  gone,  but  the  rope  was  left  on  the  tree 

VII. 
A  wonderful  thing !  for  every  one  said 
He  had  hung  till  he  was  dead,  dead,  dead; 
And  on  the  gallows  was  seen,  from  noon 
Till  ten  o'clock,  in  the  light  of  the  moon. 

VIII. 

Moreover,  the  hangman  was  ready  to  sweax 
He  had  done  his  part  with  all  due  care; 
And  that  certainly  better  hanged  than  he 
No  one  ever  was,  or  ever  could  be» 

IX. 

So  'twas  thought,  because  he  had  died  so  well, 
He  was  taken  away  by  miracle. 
But  would  he  again  alive  be  found? 
Or  had  he  been  laid  in  holy  ground? 

X. 

'Twas  a  whole  week's  wonder  in  tha.t  great  town. 
And  in  all  places,  up  the  river  and  down ; 
But  a  greater  wonder  took  place  of  it  then; 
For  Roprecht  was  found  on  the  gallows  again. 


€4  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES. 

XI. 

With  that  the  whole  city  flocked  oat  to  seej 
There  Roprecht  was  on  the  triple  tree, 
Dead,  past  all  doubt,  as  dead  could  be  j 
But  fresh  he  was,  as  if  spells  had  charmed  him, 
And  neither  wind  nor  weather  had  harmed  him 

XII. 

While  the  multitude  stood  in  a  muse, 

One  said, — "I  am  sure  he  was  hanged  in  shoes;" 

In  this  the  hangman  and  all  concurred; 

But  now,  behold,  he  was  booted  and  spurred  I 

XIII. 

Plainly,  therefore,  it  was  to  be  seen, 

That  somewhere  on  horseback  he  had  been; 

And  at  this  the  people  marveled  more. 

Than  at  anything  which  had  happened  before. 

XIV. 

For  not  in  riding  trim  was  he, 

When  he  disappeared  from  the  triple  tree; 

And  his  suit  of  irons  he  still  was  in, 

With  the  collar  that  clipped  him  under  the  chin 

XV. 

Roprecht  the  Robber  had  long  been  their  curse. 
And  hanging  had  only  made  him  worse; 
For  bad  as  he  was  when  living,  they  said 
They  had  rather  meet  him  alive  than  dead 

XVI. 

S:  some  were  for  digging  a  pit  in  the  place, 
And  burying  him  there  with  a  stone  on  his  face; 
And  that  hard  on  his  body  the  earth  should  be  pressed, 
And  exorcists  be  sent  for  *x)  lay  him  at  rest. 


RHETORICAL    READER  65 

XVII. 

But  others,  whose  knowledge  was  greater,  opined 
That  this  corpse  was  too  strong  to  be  confined; 
No  weight  of  earth  which  they  could  lay, 
Would  hold  him  down  a  single  day, 
If  he  chose  to  get  up  and  ride  away. 

XVIII. 

But  fire,  they  said,  had  been  proved  to  be 
The  only  infallible  remedy ; 
So  they  were  for  burning  the  body  outright, 
Which  would  put  a  stop  to  his  riding  by  night. 

XIX. 

Some  were  for  this,  and  some  for  that. 
And  some  they  could  not  tell  for  what; 
And  never  was  such  commotion  known 
In  that  great  city  of  Cologne. 

XX. 

Pieter  Snoye  was  a  boor  of  good  renown, 
Who  dwelt  about  an  hour  and  a  half  from  the  town, 
And  he,  while  the  people  were  all  in  debate, 
Went  quietly  in  at  the  city  gate. 

XXI. 

J^'or  Father  Kijf*  he  sought  about, 
His  Confessor,  till  he  found  him  out; 
But  the  Father  Confessor  wondered  to  see 
Tho  old  man,  and  what  his  errand  might  be. 

XXII. 

And  something  so  strange  the  Father  saw 
In  Pieter's  looks,  and  his  hum  and  his  haw, 
That  he  began  to  doubt  it  was  something  more 
Than  a  trifle  omitted  in  last  week's  score. 

*  Kijf  {klfe) 


W  SANDERS'     UNION    SERIES. 

XXIII. 

At  length,  it  came  out,  that  in  the  aflFair 
Of  Roprecht  the  Robber  he  had  some  share. 
The  Confessor  then  gave  a  start  in  fear — 
God  grant  there  have  been  no  witchcraft  here . 

XXIV. 

Pieter  Snoye,  who  was  boking  down, 

With  something  between  a  smile  and  a  frown, 

Felt  that  suspicion  move  his  bile, 

And  looked  up  with  more  of  a  frown  than  a  smila 

XXV. 

"  Though  I  am,  as  you  very  well  know.  Father  Kijf, 
A  peaceable  man,  and  keep  clear  of  strife, 
It's  a  queerish  business  that  now  Fve  been  inj 
But  I  can't  say  that  it's  much  of  a  sin." 

XXVI. 

"  Under  the  seal,  I  tell  it  you. 

And  you  will  judge  what  is  best  to  do, 

That  no  hurt  to  me  and  my  son  may  ensue. 

No  earthly  harm  have  we  intended, 

And  what  was  ill  done,  has  been  well  mended. 

XXVII. 

"  I  and  my  son,  Piet  Pieterszoon, 

Were  returning  home,  by  the  light  of  the  moon, 

From  this  good  city  of  Cologne, 

On  the  night  of  the  execution  day; 

And  hard  by  the  gibbet  was  our  way. 

XXVIII. 

,    "  About  midnight  it  was  we  were  passing  by, 
My  son,  Piet  Pieterszoon,  and  I, 
When  we  heard  a  moaning  as  we  came  near, 
Which  made  us  quake,  at  first,  for  fear. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  $11 

XXIX. 

"But  the  moaning  was  presently  heard  again, 
And  we  knew  it  was  nothing  ghostly  thenj 
'Lord  help  us,  father!'  Piet  Pieterszoon  said, 
*E,oprecht,  for  certain,  is  not  dead/ 

XXX. 

**  So  under  the  gallows  our  cart  we  drive . 
And,  sure  enough,  the  man  was  alive 
Because  of  the  irons  that  he  was  in, 
He  was  hanging,  not  by  the  neckj  but  the  chin. 

XXXI. 
"The  reason  why  things  had  got  thus  wiong. 
Was  that  the  rope  had  been  left  too  long; 
The  hangman's  fault — a  clumsy  rogue, 
He  is  not  fit  to  hang  a  dog. 

XXXII. 

"  Now  Roprecht,  as  long  as  the  people  were  there, 

Never  stirred  hand  or  foot  in  the  air; 

But  when,  at  last,  he  was  left  alone. 

By  that  time  so  much  of  his  strength  was  gone, 

That  he  could  do  little  more  than  groan." 

xxxin. 
»'  Father  Kijf,  we  could  not  bear 
To  leave  him  hanging  in  misery  there; 
And  'twas  an  act  of  mercy,  I  cannot  but  say, 
To  get  him  down,  and  take  him  away. 

XXXIV. 

"  My  son,  Piet  Pieterszoon,  and  I, 
We  took  him  down,  seeing  none  was  nigh: 
And  we  took  off  his  suit  of  irons  with  care, 
When  we  got  him  home,  and  we  hid  him  there. 


98  SANDERS'     UNION     SERIES. 

XXXV. 

'The  secret,  as  you  may  guess,  was  known 
To  Alit,  my  wife,  but  to  her  alone; 
And  never  sick  man,  T  dare  aver. 
Was  better  tended  than  he  was  by  her. 

XXXVI. 

**Piet  Pieterszoon,  my  son,  and  I, 
We  heard  folks  talk  as  we  stood  by. 
And  Piet  looked  at  me  with  a  comical  eye. 
We  thought  them  fools,  but,  you  shall  see, 
Not  over  wise  ourselves  were  we. 

XXXVII. 

"  For,  I  must  tell  you,  Father  Kijf, 
That  when  we  told  this  to  Alit,  my  wife, 
She  at  the  notion  perked  up  with  delight, 
And  said  she  believed  the  people  were  right. 

XXXVIII. 

"  Yes,  she  said,  it  was  perfectly  clear 
That  there  must  have  been  a  miracle  here ; 
And  we  had  the  happiness  to  be  in  it, 
Having  been  brought  there  just  at  the  minute 

XXXIX. 

"  Well,  Father,  we  kept  him  at  bed  and  board, 
Till  his  neck  was  cured  and  his  strength  restored 
And  we  should  have  sent  him  off  this  day 
With  something  to  help  him  on  ^is  way. 

XL. 

"But  this  wicked  Roprecht,  what  did  he? 
Though  he  had  been  saved  thus  mercifully; 
Hanging  had  done  him  so  little  good, 
Tliat  he  took  to  his  old  ways  as  soon  as  he  couid 


RHETORICAL    READER. 
XLI. 

"  Last  night,  when  we  were  all  asleep, 
Out  of  his  bed  did  this  gallows-bird  creep; 
Piet  Pieterszoon's  boots  and  spurs  he  put  on, 
And  stole  my  best  horse,  and  away  he  was  gone. 

XLII 

"  Now  Alit,  my  wife,  did  not  sleep  so  hard, 
But  she  heard  the  horse's  feet  in  the  yard; 
And,  when  she  jogged  me,  and  bade  me  wake, 
My  mind  misgave  me  as  soon  as  she  spake. 

XLIII. 

"  To  the  window  my  good  woman  went, 
And  watched  which  way  his  course  he  bent; 
And,  in  such  time  as  a  pipe  can  be  lit, 
Our  horses  were  ready  with  bridle  and  bit. 

XLIV. 

"  Away,  as  fast  as  we  could  hie, 

We  went,  Piet  Pieterszoon  and  I; 

And  still  on  the  plain  we  had  him  in  sight; 

The  moon  did  not  shine  for  nothing  that  night. 

XLV. 

"  Knowing  the  ground  and  riding  fast, 

We  came  up  with  him  at  last; 

And — would  you  believe  it?  Father  Kijf, 

The  ungrateful  wretch  would  have  taken  my  life, 

If  he  had  not  missed  his  stroke  with  a  knife. 

XL  VI. 

"  The  struggle  in  no  long  time*  was  done. 
Because,  you  know,  we  were  two  to  one; 
But  yet  all  our  strength  we  were  fain  to  try, 
Piet  Pieterszoon,  my  son,  and  I. 


f0  SANDERb      UNION     SERIES. 

XLVII. 

"  When  we  had  got  him  on  the  groundj 
We  fastened  his  hands,  and  his  legs  we  bouad 
And  across  the  horse  we  laid  him  then, 
And  brought  him  back  to  the  house  again/' 

XLVIII. 

* '  We  have  robbed  the  gallows  and  that  was  ill  done ;' 
Said  I  to  Piet  Pieterszoon,  my  son, 
*  And  restitution  we  must  make 
To  that  same  gallows,  for  justice*  sake/ 

XLIX. 

•'  In  his  suit  of  irons  the  rogue  we  arrayed, 
And  once  again  in  the  cart  he  was  laid; 
Night  not  yet  so  far  was  spent, 
But  there  was  time  enough  for  our  intent; 
And  back  to  the  triple  tree  we  went. 

L. 

"  His  own  rope  was  ready  there, 

To  measure  the  length  we  took  good  care; 

And  the  job  which  the  bungling  hangman  begun, 

This  time,  I  think,  was  properly  done. 

By  me  and  Piet  Pieterszoon,  my  son/' 


EXERCISE  VIII. 

James  Abraham  Hillhouse  was  born  in  New  Haven,  Ct.,  Sept.  2i% 
1789,  and  died  near  the  same  place,  Jan.  4th,  1841.  He  was  a  writar  of  con- 
siderable merit,  both  in  prose  anJ  verse.  The  following  is  from  a  .Irama  by 
him,  entitled  Hadad.  In  this  play,  Hadad  is  represented  as  a  person  of  tha 
royal  blood  of  Damascus,  detained  as  a  hostage  in  Jerusalem.  The  Tamar, 
here  introduced,  is  a  daughter  of  Absalom,  who  is  described  (IT.  Sam.,  chap, 
xiv.  V.  27)  as  "  a  woman  of  fair  countenance."  Absalom,  in  furtherance  of 
hie  ambitious  projects,  is  disposed  to  give  her  in  marriage  to  Hadad;  nor  if 


RHETORICAL    READER.  71 

she  herself  av^erse  to  the  alliance,  as  will  appear  in  the  dialogue.  Nathak 
is  the  celebrated  prophet  who  so  pointedly  rebuked  king  David  (II.  Sam., 
chap.  xii.). 

^  Thebes,  the  "hundred-gated  city,"  was  situated  in  Upper  Egypt. 
It  wa«  said  to  have  20,000  war-chariots,  and  a  circuit  of  not  less  than 
17  miles.  Its  flourishing  era  lasted  nearly  eight  centuries,  that  is,  from 
W.  0.  1600  to  B.  c.  800.  The  site  of  the  city  is  now  a  desert,  or  occupied 
by  a  few  stragding  villages. 

''  Palibo'thra,  or  Palimbo''thra,  a  celebrated  city  of  ancient  India, 
DOW  known  by  the  narae  of  Patna. 

'*  Seren''dib,  an  old  name  for  the  island  of  Ceylon ;  so  called  by  the 
Arabs. 

*  Ilium  is  only  another  name  for  ancient  Troy  in  Asia  Minor. 

*  ElFshah's  Isles,  so  called  from  Elishah,  a  son  of  Javan  (Gen,  x.  iv.). 
His  descendants  are  supposed  to  have  peopled  Greece,  especially  the 
southern  part,  as  also  the  islands  of  the  iEgean  Sea. 

*  Mem-'non  is  represented  by  most  Greek  writers  as  king  of  Ethiopia. 
He  fought  against  the  Greeks  in  the  Trojan  War,  and  was  slain  by 
Achilles. 

'  Urim  and  Thummim,  Itf/his  and  truths ;  a  kind  of  ornaments  on  the 
breastplate  of  the  high  priest,  in  virtue  of  which  he  gave  answers  to  the 
people  in  certain  cases  of  appeal  to  God. 

SCENE  FROM  HADAD. 

JAMES  A.   HILLHOrM. 

An  Apartment  in  Ahsalom's  House.     Nathan  and  Tamar. 

Natli.  But  tell  me,  hast  thou  ever  noted 
Amidst  his  many  shining  qualities 
Aught  strange  or  singular  ? — unlike  to  others '/ 
That  caused  thy  wonder  ?  even  to  thyself 
Aloved  thee  to  say,  "  How? — Wherefore's  this?'* 

Tarn.  Never. 

Naili.  Nothing  that  marked  him  from  the  rest  of  men  ? — 
Hereafter  you  shall  know  why  thus  I  question. 

Tarn.  0,  yes,  unlike  he  seems  in  many  things,— 
In  knowledge,  eloquence,  high  thoughts. 

Nath.  Proud  thoughts 
Thou  mean'st  ? 

Tarn.  I'm  but  a  young  and  simple  maid ; 


72  SANDERS'     UNION    SERIES. 

But,  father,  he,  of  all  my  ears  have  judged, 
Is  master  of  the  loftiest,  richest  mind. 

Nafh.  How  have  I  wronged  him  !  deeming  him  more  apt 
For  intricate  designs,  and  daring  deeds, 
Than  contemplation's  solitary  flights. 

Tarn.  Seer,  his  far-soaring  thoughts  ascend  the  stars, 
Pierce  the  unseen  abyss,  pervade,  like  light, 
The  universe,  and  wing  the  infinite 

Naih.  (^fixing  his  eyes  upon  her) 
What  stores  of  love,  and  praise,  and  gratitude 
He  thence  must  bring  to  Him  whose  mighty  hand 
Fashioned  their  glories,  hung  yon  golden  orbs 
Amidst  His  firmament;  who  bids 
The  day-spring  know  his  place,  and  sheds  from  all 
Sweet  influences ;  who  bars  the  haughty  sea. 
Binds  fast  his  dreadful  hail,  but  drops  the  dew 
Nightly  upon  His  people !    How  his  soul. 
Returning  from  its  quest  through  Earth  and  Heaven, 
Must  glow  with  holy  fervor !     Doth  it,  maiden  ? 

Tajn.  Ah !  father,  father,  were  it  so  indeed,  I  were  too  happy  I 

Nath.  How  ! — expound  thy  words. 

Tarn.  Though  he  has  trod  the  confines  of  the  world, 
Knows  all  its  wonders,  and  almost  has  pierced 
The  secrets  of  eternity,  his  heart 
Is  melancholy,  lone,  discordant,  save 
When  love  attunes  it  into  happiness. 
He  hath  not  found,  alas !  the  peace  which  dwells 
But  with  our  fathers'  God. 

Nath.  And  canst  thou  love 
One  who  loves  not  Jehovah  ? 

Tarn.  0,  ask  not. 

Nath.  (fervently.') 
My  child  !  thou  wouldst  not  wed  an  Infidel  ? 

Tarn,  (in  tears)  O,  no  !  0,  no  ! 

Nath.  Why  then  this  embassage  ?     Why  doth  your  sire 
Still  urge  the  king  ?     Why  hast  thou  hearkened  it  ? 

Tarn.  There  was  a  time  when  T  had  hopes, — when  truth 


RHETORICAL.    READER.  tJ 

Seemed  dawning  in  his  mind, — and  sometimes  still. 
Such   heavenly  glimpses  shine,  that  my  fond  heart 
Refuses  to  forego  the  hope,  at  last, 
To  number  him  with  Israel. 

Nafh.  Beware, 
Or  thou'lt  delude  thy  soul  to  ruin.     Say, 
Doth  he  attend  our  holy  ordinances  ? 

Tarn.   He  promises  observance. 

Nath.  Two  full  years 
Hath  he  abode  in  Jewry. 

Tarn.  Prophet,  think 
How  he  was  nurtured — in  the  faith  of  Ido's ; 
That  impious  worship  long  since  he  abjured 
15y  his  own  native  strength ;  and  now  he  looks 
Abroad  through  Nature's  works,  and  yet  must  rise. 

Nath.  Speaks  he  of  Moses  ? 

7^am.  Familiar  as  thyself. 

N'afh.  I  think  thou  said'st  he  had  surveyed  the  world  ? 

Tarn.  0  father,  he  can  speak 
Of  hundred-gated  Thebes,*  towered  Babylon, 
And  mightier  Nineveh,  vast  Palibothra,' 
Serendib'  anchored  by  the  gates  of  morning, 
Renowned  Benares,  where  the  Sages  teach 
The  mystery  of  the  soul,  and  that  famed  Ilium* 
Where  fleets  and  warriors  from  Elishah's  Isles* 
Besieged  the  Beauty,*  where  Memnon*  fell : — 
Of  pyramids,  temples,  and  superstitious  caves 
Filled  with  strange  symbols  of  the  Deity; 
Of  wondrous  mountains,  desert-circled  seas, 
Isles  of  the  ocean,  lovely  Paradises, 
Set  like  unfading  emeralds  in  the  deep. 

Nafh.  Yet  manhood  scarce  confirms  his  cheek. 

Tarn.  All  this 
His  thirst  of  knowledge  has  achieved ;  the  wish 
To  prather  from  the  wise  eternal  Truth. 


*  Helea 
6R 


f-^  SANDERS'     UNION    SERIES. 

Nath.  Not  found  where  he  has  sought  it,  and  ha«  led 
Thy  wandering  fancy. 

Tarn.  0,  might  I  relate — 
But  T  bethink  me,  father,  of  a  thing 
Like  that  you  asked. — Sometimes,  when  I'm  alone,— 
Just  ere  his  coming, — I  have  heard  a  sound, 
A  strange,  mysterious,  melancholy  sound, — 
Like  music  in  the  air.     Anon,  he  enters. 

Nath.  Ha  !  is  this  oft  ? 

Tarn.  'Tis  not  unfrequent. 

Nath    Only 
When  thou'rt  alone  ? 

Tarn.  I  have  not  heard  it  else. 

Nath.  A  sound  like  what  ? 

Tarn.  Like  wild,  sad  music,  father; 
More  moving  than  the  lute  or  viol  touched 
By  skillful  fingers.     Wailing  in  the  air. 
It  seems  around  me,  and  withdraws  as  when 
One  looks  and  lingers  for  a  last  adieu. 

Nath.  Just  ere  he  enters  ? 

Tarn.   At  his  step  it  dies. 

Nath.  Mark  me. — Thou  know'st  'tis  held  by  righteous  men. 
That  Heaven  intrusts  us  all  to  Holy  Watchers,* 
Who  ward  us  from  the  Tempter.     This  I  deem 
Some  intimation  of  an  unseen  danger. 

Tarn.  But  whence  ? 

Nath.  Time  may  reveal;  meanwhile  I  warn  thee 
Trust  not  thyself  alone  with  Hadad. 

Tarn.  Thiuk'st  thou — 

Nath.  I  scarce  know  what  I  think, — my  thoughts  are  troubled 
If  some  lewd  spirit,  taken  with  thy  beauty, 
Or  plotting  to  deceive  and  disunite  us, 
Cculd  put  on  human  semblance,  this  were  he. 

Tarn.  0  father,  father  ! 

Nath.  Inscrutable  he  seems,  yet  ever  busy ; 


*  Psalm  xxxiv.,  v.  7. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  75 

His  mocking  eye  insults,  while  it  emits 
Tlie  malice  of  the  serpent;  snake-like,  too, 
He  slinks  away,  even  while  his  looks  dart  fury. 
Nay,  nay — I  lay  not  to  his  charge — I  know 
Little  of  him,  though  I  have  supplicated, — 
T  will  not  wound  thee  with  my  dark  suspicions— 
But  shun  the  peril  thou  art  warned  of,  shun 
What  looks  like  danger  though  we  haply  err. 
Be  not  alone  with  him,  I  charge  thee. 

Tam.  Seer, 
I  will  avoid  it. 

Nath.  All  is  ominous  : 
The  Oracles  are  mute,  dreams  warn  no  more, 
Urim  and  Thummim^  keep  their  glory  hid, 
My  days  are  dark,  my  nights  are  visionless, 
Jehovah  hath  forsaken,  or,  in  wrath. 
Resigned  us  for  a  season.     Times  like  these 
Are  jubilee  in  Hell.     Fiends  walk  the  Earth,* 
Misleading  princes,  tempting  poor  men's  pillows, 
Supplying  moody  hatred  with  the  dagger, 
Lust  with  occasions,  treason  with  excuses, 
Lifting  man's  heart,  like  the  rebellious  waves, 
Against  his  Maker.     Watch,  and  pray,  and  tremble; 
So  may  the  Highest  overshadow  thee  1 


EXERCISE  IX. 


.tonw  GoDFRET  Saxe,  one  of  the  wittiest  of  American  poets,  was  bom  U 
Franklin  County,  Vermont,  June  2d,  1816.  His  lines  are  full  of  verbal  feli- 
cities, often  sparkling  with  genuine  wit  and  humor,  and  ever  abounding  in 
"graceful  and  poetical  puns."  We  select  the  following,  as  best  exhibiting 
his  manner,  and,  at  the  same  time,  showing  a  definite  purpose  underlying 
all  this  fun. 


»  Job.  i.  f   7. 


7M  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES. 

THE  PROUD  MISS  MACBRIDE. 

A  LEGEND  OF  GOTHAM. 


joHR  I.  am. 


O,  terribly  proud  was  Miss  MacBride, 
The  very  personification  of  pride, 
As  she  minced  along  in  fashion's  tide, 
Adown  Broadway — on  the  proper  side — 

When  the  golden  sun  was  setting; 
There  was  pride  in  the  head  she  carried  so  high, 
Pride  in  her  lip,  and  pride  in  her  eye, 
And  a  world  of  pride  in  the  very  sigh 

That  her  stately  bosom  was  fretting  1 

II. 

O,  terribly  proud  was  Miss  MacBride, 
Proud  of  her  beauty,  and  proud  of  her  pride, 
And  proud  of  fifty  matters  beside — 

That  wouldn't  have  borne  dissection; 
Proud  of  her  wit,  and  proud  of  her  walk. 
Proud  of  her  teeth,  and  proud  of  her  talk, 
Proud  of  "  knowing  cheese  from  chalk," 

On  a  very  slight  inspection ! 

III. 
Proud  abroad,  and  proud  at  home, 
Proud  wherever  she  chanced  to  come — 
When  she  was  glad,  and  when  she  was  glumj 

Proud  as  the  head  of  a  Saracen 
Over  the  door  of  a  tippling-shop ! — 
Proud  as  a  duchess,  proud  as  a  fop, 
"  Proud  as  a  boy  with  a  bran-new  top," 

Proud  beyond  comparison  I 

IV. 

It  seems  a  singular  thing  to  say. 
But  her  very  senses  led  her  astray 
Kespecting  all  humility; 


RHETORICAL    READER.  77 

In  sooth,  her  dull,  auricular  drum 
Could  find  in  humble  only  a  "  hum," 
And  heard  no  sound  of  "gentle"  come, 
In  talking  about  gentility. 


What  lowly  meant  she  didn't  know, 

For  she  always  avoided  "  everything  low," 

With  care  the  most  punctilious; 
And,  queerer  still,  the  audible  sound 
Of  "super-silly"  she  never  had  found 

In  the  adjective  supercilious ! 


VI. 

The  meaning  of  meek  she  never  knew. 
But  imagined  the  phrase  had  something  to  do 
With  "  Moses,"  a  peddling  German  Jew, 
Who,  like  all  hawkers,  the  country  through, 

Was  "a  person  of  no  position;" 
And  it  seemed  to  her  exceedingly  plain, 
If  the  word  was  really  known  to  pertain 
To  a  vulgar  German,  it  wasn't  germane 

To  a  lady  of  high  condition  1 

vn. 

Even  her  graces — not  her  grace — 
For  that  was  in  the  "  vocative  case" — 
Chilled  with  the  touch  of  her  icy  face. 

Sat  very  stiffly  upon  her ! 
She  never  confessed  a  favor  aloud, 
Like  one  of  the  simple,  common  crowd- 
But  coldly  smiled,  and  faintly  bowed, 
As  who  should  say,  "You  do  me  proud, 

And  do  yourself  an  honor  I" 


78  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES. 

VIII. 

Aud  yet  the  pride  of  Miss  MacBride, 
Although  it  had  fifty  hobbies  to  ride, 

Had  really  no  foundation  j 
But,  like  the  fabrics  that  gossips  devise — 
Those  single  stories  that  often  arise 
And  grow  till  they  reach  a  four-story  size- 
Was  merely  a  fancy  creation ! 

IX. 

Her  birth,  indeed,  was  uncommonly  high — 
For  Miss  MacBride  first  opened  her  eye 
Through  a  skylight  dim,  on  the  light  of  the  skyj 

But  pride  is  a  curious  passion — 
And  in  talking  about  her  wealth  and  worth, 
She  always  forgot  to  mention  her  birth 

To  people  of  rank  and  fashion  1 

X. 

Of  all  the  notable  things  on  earth, 
The  queerest  one  is  pride  of  birth, 

Among  our  "fierce  democracie!" 
A  bridge  across  a  hundred  years. 
Without  a  prop  to  save  it  from  sneers— 
Not  even  a  couple  of  rotten  peers — 
A  thing  for  laughter,  fleers,  and  jeers, 

Is  American  aristocracy  I 

XI 

English  and  Irish,  French  and  Spanish, 
German,  Italian,  Dutch  and  Danish, 
Crossing  their  veins  until  they  vanish 

In  one  conglomeration; 
So  subtle  a  tangle  of  blood,  indeed, 
N  »  heraldry-Harvey  will  ever  succeed 

In  finding  the  circulation  I 


RHETORICAL    READER  79 

XTI, 

Depend  upon  it,  my  snobbish  friend, 
Your  family  thread  you  can't  ascend, 
Without  good  reason  to  apprehend 
You  may  find  it  waxed  at  the  farther  end. 

By  some  plebeian  vocation; 
Or,  worse  than  that,  your  boasted  line 
May  end  in  a  loop  of  stronger  twine, 

That  plagued  some  worthy  relation  J 

XIII. 

But  Miss  MacBride  had  something  beside 
Her  lofty  birth  to  nourish  her  pride — 
For  rich  was  the  old  paternal  MacBride, 

A-Ccording  to  public  rumor; 
And  he  lived  "up  town,"  in  a  splendid  square, 
And  kept  his  daughter  on  dainty  fare, 
And  gave  her  gems  that  were  rich  and  rare, 
And  the  finest  rings  and  things  to  wear, 

And  feathers  enough  to  plume  her. 

XIV. 
A  thriving  tailor  begged  her  hand. 
But  she  gave  "  the  fellow"  to  understand, 

By  a  violent  manual  action, 
She  perfectly  scorned  the  best  of  his  clan, 
And  reckoned  the  ninth  of  any  man 

An  exceedingly  vulgar  fraction  I 

XV. 

Another,  whose  sign  was  a  golden  boot, 
Was  mortified  with  a  bootless  suit. 

In  a  way  that  was  quite  appalling; 
For,  though  a  regular  szitor*  by  trade, 
He  wasn't  a  suitor  to  suit  the  maid. 
Who  cut  him  off  with  a  saw — and  bade 

"  The  cobbler  keep  to  his  calling !" 

*  Sutor  is  the  Latin  for  shoemaker. 


#0  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES. 

XVI. 

A  rich  tobaccoDist  comes  and  sues, 
And,  thinking  the  lady  would  scarce  refuse 
A  man  of  his  wealth,  and  liberal  views, 
Began,  at  once,  with  "  If  you  dioose — 

And  could  you  really  love  him—"  . 
But  the  lady  spoiled  his  speech  in  a  huff, 
With  an  answer  rough  and  ready  enough, 
To  let  him  know  she  was  up  to  snuff, 

Aud  altogether  above  him  I 


XVII. 

A  young  attorney,  of  winning  grace. 
Was  scarce  allowed  to  "open  his  face," 
Ere  Miss  MacBride  had  closed  his  case 

With  true  judicial  celerity; 
For  the  lawyer  was  poor,  and  "seedy"  to  boot, 
And  to  say  the  lady  discarded  his  .smi7, 

Is  merely  a  double  verity ! 

XVIII. 

The  last  of  those  who  came  to  court, 
Was  a  lively  beau,  of  the  dapper  sort, 
"  Without  any  visible  means  of  support," 

A  crime  by  no  means  flagrant 
In  one  who  wears  an  elegant  coat. 
But  the  very  point  on  which  they  vote 

A  ragged  fellow  "a  vagrant!" 

XIX. 

Now  dapper  Jim  his  courtship  plied 

(I  wish  the  fact  could  be  denied) 

With  an  eye  to  the  purse  of  the  old  MacBride, 

And  really  "nothing  shorter!" 
For  he  said  to  himself,  in  his  greedy  lust, 
"  Whenever  he  dies — as  die  he  must — 


RHETORICAL    READER.  8] 

And  yields  to  Heaven  his  vital  trust, 
He's  very  sure  to  '  come  down  with  his  duat/ 
In  behalf  of  his  only  daughter." 

XX. 

And  the  very  magnificent  Miss  MacBride, 
Half  in  love,  and  half  in  pride, 

Quite  graciously  relented; 
And,  tossing  her  head,  and  turning  her  back, 
No  token  of  proper  pride  to  lack — 
To  be  a  bride,  without  the  "  Mac," 

With  much  disdain,  consented! 

XXI. 

Old  John  MacBride,  one  fatal  day, 
Became  the  unresisting  prey 

Of  fortune's  undertakers; 
And  staking  all  on  a  single  die. 
His  foundered  bark  went  high  and  dry 

Among  the  brokers  and  breakers ! 

XXII. 
But,  alas,  for  the  haughty  Miss  MacBride, 
'Twas  such  a  shock  to  her  precious  pride  I 
She  couldn't  recover,  although  she  tried 

Her  jaded  spirits  to  rally; 
'Twas  a  dreadful  change  in  human  aflfairs, 
From  a  place  "  up  town,"  to  a  nook  "  up  stairs 

From  an  avenue  down  to  an  alley ! 

XXIII. 

'Twas  little  condolence  she  had,  God  wot — 
From  her  "  troops  of  friends,"  who  hadn't  forgot 

The  airs  she  used  to  borrow  I 
They  had  civil  phrases  enough,  but  yet 
'Twas  plain  to  see  that  their  "  deepest  regret" 

Was  a  different  thing  from  sorrow ' 
^*  5R 


^2  SANDERS*    UNION    SERIES. 

XXIV. 

And  one  of  those  chaps  who  make  a  pun 
As  if  it  were  quite  legitimate  fun 
To  be  blazing  away  at  every  one 
With  a  regular,  double-loaded  gun — 

Remarked  that  moral  transgression 
Always  brings  retributive  stings 
To  candle-makers  as  well  as  kings; 
For  "  making  light  of  cereous  things" 

Was  a  very  loick-ed  profession ! 

XXV. 
And  vulgar  people — the  saucy  churls — 
Inquired  about  "  the  price  of  pearls," 

And  mocked  at  her  situation : 
**  She  wasn't  ruined — they  ventured  to  hope— - 
Because  she  was  poor,  she  needn't  mope* 
Few  people  were  better  oflF  for  soap. 

And  that  was  a  consolation  " 

XXVI. 

And  to  make  her  cup  of  woe  run  over. 
Her  elegant,  ardent  plighted  lover 

Was  the  very  first  to  forsake  her; 
"  He  quite  regretted  the  step,  'twas  true- 
The  lady  had  pride  enough  '  for  two/ 
But  that  alone  would  never  do 

To  quiet  the  butcher  and  baker  '** 

XXVII. 

And  now  the  unhappT  Miss  MacBride— 
The  merest  ghost  of  her  early  pride — 

Bewails  her  lonely  position; 
^    Cramped  in  the  very  narrowest  niche, 
Above  the  poor,  and  below  the  rich — 

Was  ever  a  worse  condition  I 


RHETORICAL    READER  '  S3 

XXVIII. 
MORAL. 

Because  you  flourish  in  worldly  aflfairs, 
Don't  be  haughty,  and  put  on  airs, 

With  insolent  pride  of  station ! 
Don't  be  proud,  and  turn  up  your  nose 
At  poorer  people  in  plainer  clothes. 
But  learn,  for  the  sake  of  your  mind's  repose, 
That  wealth's  a  bubble  that  comes — and  goes ! 
And  that  all  proud  flesh,  wherever  it  grows, 

Ts  subject  to  irritation ! 


EXERCISE  X. 
THE  ETTRICK  SHEPHERD. 

ROBERT   CHAMBBRS.* 

f-.  James  Hogg,  generally  known  as  "The  Ettrick  Shep- 
HSR^o,"  was,  perhaps,  the  most  creative  and  imaginative  of  the 
uneducated  poets.  His  fancy  had  a  wide  range,  picturing  in 
its  flight  scenes  of  wild  aerial  magnificence  and  beauty.  His 
taste  was  very  defective,  though  he  had  done  much  to  repair 
his  early  want  of  instruction.  His  occupation  of  a  shepherd, 
among  solitary  hills  and  glens,  must  have  been  favorable  to  his 
poetical  enthusiasm.  He  was  not,  like  Burns,  thrown  into  so- 
ciety when  young,  and  forced  to  combat  with  misfortune.  His 
destiny  was  unvaried,  until  he  had  arrived  at  a  period,  when 
the  bent  of  his  genius  was  fixed  for  life.  Without  society  during 
the  day,  his  evening  hours  were  spent  in  listening  to  ancient 
legends  and  ballads,  of  which  his  mother,  like  Burns's,  was  a 
great  reci  or.  This  nursery  of  imagination  he  has  himself 
beautifully  described : — 

2.  0  list,  the  mystic  lore  sublime 
Of  fairy  tales  of  ancient  time  I 

♦  For  a  Note  on  Chambers,  see  Exercise  CVIII. 


W  SANDERS'     UNION     SERIES. 

I  learned  them  in  the  lonely  glen, 

The  last  abodes  of  Hying  men, 

Where  never  stranger  came  our  way 

By  summer  night,  or  winter  day; 

Where  neighboring  hind  or  cot  was  none— 

Our  converse  was  with  heaven  alone — 

With  voices  through  the  cloud  that  sung, 

And  brooding  storms  that  round  us  hung; 

0,  lady,  judge,  if  judge  we  may. 

How  stern  and  ample  was  the  sway 

Of  themes  like  these,  when  darkness  fell, 

And  gray-haired  sires  the  tales  would  tell 

When  doors  were  barred,  and  elder  dame 

Plied  at  her  task  beside  the  flame. 

That,  through  tlie  smoke  and  gloom  alone, 

On  dim  and  umbered  faces  shone, — 

The  bleat  of  mountain  goat  on  high. 

That  from  the  cliff  came  quivering  by; 

The  echoing  rock,  the  rnsliing  flood, 

The  cataract's  swell,  the  moaning  wood; 

The  undefined  and  mingled  hum — 

Voice  of  the  desert  never  dumb! 

All  these  have  left  within  this  heart 

A  feeling  tongue  can  ne'er  impart; 

A  wildered  and  unearthly  flame, 

A  something  that's  without  a  name. 

3.  Hogg  was  descended  from  a  family  of  shepherds,  and  ouiu, 
as  he  alleged  (though  the  point  was  often  disputed),  on  the  25Lh 
January  (Burns's  birthday),  in  the  year  1772.  When  a  mere 
child  he  was  put  out  to  service,  acting  first  as  a  cow-herd,  until 
capable  of  takiiig  care  of  a  flock  of  sheep.  He  had  in  all  about 
half  a  year's  sc  hooling.  When  eighteen  years  of  age,  he  entered 
the  service  of  .Mr.  Laidlaw,  Blackhouse.  He  was  then  an  eager 
reader  of  poetiy  and  romances,  and  he  subscribed  to  a  ciiculatiug 
library  in  Peebles,  the  miscellaneous  contents  of  which  he  pe- 
rused with  th  5  utmost  avidity. 

4.  He  was  a  remarkably  fine-looking  young  man,  with  a  pro- 
fusion of  light-brown  hair,  which  he  wore  coiled  up  under  his 
hat  or  blue  bonnet,  the  envy  of  all  the  country  maidens.     Ad 


RHETORICAL    READER.  85 

attack  of  illness,  however,  Drought  on  by  over  exe.'ticn  on  a  hot 
summer  day,  completely  altered  his  countenance,  anj  changed 
the  very  form  of  his  features.  His  first  literary  eifort  was  in 
song  writing,  and,  in  1801,  he  published  a  small  volume  of  pifies. 
He  was  introduced  to  Sir  Walter  Scott  by  his  master's  son,  Mr. 
William  Laidlaw,  and  assisted  in  the  collection  of  old  ballads 
for  the  Border  Minstrelsy.  He  soon  imitated  the  style  of  these 
ancient  strains  with  great  felicity,  and  published  another  volume 
of  songs  and  poems  under  the  title  of  the  Mountain  Bard. 

5.  He  now  embarked  in  sheep  farming,  and  took  a  journey 
t  the  island  of  Lewis  on  a  speculation  of  this  kind;  but  all 
he  had  saved  as  a  shepherd,  or  by  his  publication,  was  lost  in 
these  attempts.  He  then  repaired  to  Edinburgh,  and  endeavored 
to  subsist  by  his  pen.  A  collection  of  .»ongs,  The  Forest  Min- 
strel, was  his  first  eflPort;  his  second  was  a  periodical  called  The 
Spy;  but  it  was  not  till  the  publication  of  the  Queen's  Wake, 
in  1813,  that  the  Shepherd  established  his  reputation  as  an 
author. 

6.  This  legendary  poem  consists  of  a  collection  of  tales  and 
ballads,  supposed  to  be  sung  to  Mary,  Queen  of  Scots,  by  the 
native  bards  of  Scotland,  assembled  at  a  royal  wake  at  Holy 
rood,  in  order  that  the  fair  queen  might  prove 

*♦  The  wondrous  power  of  Scottish  song." 

The  design  was  excellent,  and  the  execution  so  varied  and 
masterly,  that  Hogg  was  at  once  placed  among  the  first  of  our 
living  poets.  The  difi'erent  productions  of  the  native  minstrels 
are  strung  together  by  a  thread  of  narrative  so  gracefully 
written  in  many  parts,  that  the  reader  is  surprised  equally  at 
the  delicacy  and  the  genius  of  the  author. 

7.  At  the  conclusion  of  the  poem,  Hogg  alludes  to  Lis 
illustrious  friend  Scott,  and  adverts  with  some  feeling  K  -lO 
aavice  which  Sir  Walter  had  once  given  him,  to  abstain  £r(  a 
his  worship  of  poetry  : 

"  The  land  was  charmed  to  list  his  lays ; 
It  knew  the  harp  of  ancient  days. 


86  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES* 

The  border  chiefs  that  long  had  been 
In  sepulchers,  unhearsed  and  green, 
Passed  from  their  moldy  vaults  away, 
In  armor  red  and  stern  array, 
And,  by  their  moonlight  halls, were  seen 
In  visor,  helm,  and  habergeon,* 
Even  fairies  sought  our  land  again, 
So  powerful  was  the  magic  strain. 

8.  Blest  be  his  generous  heart  for  aye  1 
He  told  me  where  the  relic  lay ; 
Pointed  my  way  with  ready  will 
Afar  on  Ettrick's  wildest  hill ; 
Watched  my  first  notes  with  curious  eye, 
And  wondered  at  my  minstrelsy : 

He  little  weened  a  parent's  tongue 
Such  strains  had  o'er  my  cradle  sung. 

9.  But, when  to  native  feelings  true, 
I  struck  upon  a  chord  was  new ; 
When  by  myself  I  'gan  to  play, 
He  tried  to  wile  my  harp  away. 

Just  when  her  notes  began  with  skill, 
To  sound  beneath  the  southern  hill, 
And  twine  around  my  bosom's  core. 
How  could  we  part  for  evermore  ? 
'Twas  kindness  all — I  cannot  blame — 
For  bootless  is  the  minstrel  flame: 
But  eure  a  bard  might  well  have  known 
Another'^  feelings  by  his  own  /" 

13.  His  love  of  angling  and  field-sports  amounted  to  a  passion, 
and,  when  lie  could  no  longer  fish  or  hunt,  he  declared  his 
belief  that  his  death  was  near.  In  the  autumn  of  1835,  he  was 
attacked  with  a  dropsical  complaint ;  and,  on  the  21st  November 
of  tha'  year,  after  some  days  of  insensibility,  he  breathed  his 
last  as  calmly,  and  with  as  little  pain,  as  he  ever  fell  asleep  in 
his  gray  plaid  on  the  hill-side.  His  death  was  deeply  mourned 
in  the  vale  of  Ettrick,  for  all  rejoiced  in  his  fame;  and,  not- 
withstanding his  personal  foibles,  the  Shepherd  was  generous, 
kind-hearted,  and  charitable  far  beyond  his  means. 

*  Habergeon  (ha  ber^  j'e  on),  armor  to  cover  the  neck  and  breast 


RHETORICAL    READER.  87 


EXERCISE  XI. 

Mary  Stuart,  Queen  of  Scots,  was  born  in  the  palace  of  Linlithgow,  in 
Dec.  1542,  and  was  beheaded  at  Fotheringay  Castle,  in  Northamptonshire, 
England,  Feb.  8th,  1587.  She  was  betrothed  to  the  dauphin  of  France,  son 
of  Henry  II.,  and  sailed  for  that  country  Aug.  7th,  1548.  She  was  kindly 
received  by  Henry  II.,  and  treated  as  a  daughter.  In  France  she  received  a 
brilliant  ed  ication.  She  was  married  to  the  dauphin  April  24th,  1558.  Upon 
the  death  of  Henry  II.,  in  1559,  Mary  became  Queen  of  France.  But,  in 
1560,  not  quite  seventeen  months  after  «he  was  made  queen,  her  husband, 
Francis  II.,  died.  After  his  death,  she  resolved  to  return  to  Scotland.  She 
embarked  at  Calais  Aug.  14th,  1561,  and  arrived  at  Leith  on  the  19th  of  the 
game  month.  This  is  the  Landing  op  Queen  Mary,  so  beautifully  sung  in 
the  following  piece. 


QUEEN  MARY'S  LANDING. 

I. 

After  a  youth,  by  woes  o'ercast, 
After  a  thousand  sorrows  past, 
The  lovely  Mary  once  again 
Set  foot  upon  her  native  plain. 
Kneeled  on  the  pier  with  modest  grace, 
And  turned  to  heaven  her  beauteous  face. 
'Twas  then  the  caps  in  air  were  blended, 
A  thousand,  thousand  shouts  ascended; 
Shivered  the  breeze  around  the  throng; 
Gray  barrier  cliffs  the  peals  prolong : 
And  every  tongue  gave  thanks  to  Heaven, 
That  Mary  to  their  hopes  was  given 

n. 

Her  comely  form,  and  graceful  mien, 
Bespoke  the  Lady  and  the  Queen ; 
The  woes  of  one  so  fair  and  young, 
Mo\  ed  every  heart,  and  every  tongue ; 
Driven  from  her  home,  a  helpless  child, 
To  brave  the  winds  and  billows  wild ; 
An  exile  bred  in  realms  afar 
Amid  commotions,  broils,  and  war. 


JMOa  HOOO 


8ANDERS'     ONION    SERIES. 

Ill  one  short  year  her  hopes  all  crossed,— 

A  parent,  husband,  kingdom  lost ! 

And  all  ere  eighteen  years  had  shed 

Their  honors  o'er  her  royal  head. 

For  such  a  Queen,  the  Stuart's  heir, 

A  Queen  so  courteous,  young,  and  fair; 

Who  would  not  every  foe  defy  ? 

Who  would  not  stand  ?     Who  would  not  die  T 

m. 

Light  on  her  airy  steed  she  sprung, 

Around  with  golden  tassels  hung; 

No  chieftain  there  rode  half  so  free, 

Or  half  so  light  and  gracefully. 

How  sweet  to  see  her  ringlets  pale 

Wide  waving  in  the  southland  gale. 

Which,  through  the  broom-wood  blossoms,  flew 

To  fan  her  cheeks  of  rosy  hue  ! 

Whene'er  it  heaved  her  bosom's  screen, 

What  beauties  in  her  form  were  seen  ! 

And  when  her  courser's  mane  it  swung, 

A  thousand  silver  bells  were  rung. 

A  sight  so  fail,  on  Scottish  plain, 

A  Scot  shall  never  see  again. 

IV. 

When  Mary  turned  her  wondering  eyes 
On  rocks  that  seemed  to  prop  the  skies. 
On  palace,  park,  and  battled  pile, — 
On  lake,  on  river,  sea,  and  isle, — 
O'er  woods  and  meadows  bathed  in  dew, 
To  distant  mountains  wild  and  blue, — 
She  thought  the  isle  that  gave  her  birth. 
The  sweetest,  wildest  land  on  earth. 

V. 

Slowly,  she  ambled  on  her  way, 
Amid  her  lords  and  ladies  gay. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  H9 

Priest,  abbot,  iayman,  all  were  there, 
And  presbyter  with  look  severe. 
There  rode  the  lords  of  France  and  Spain. 
Of  England,  Flanders,  and  Lorraine, 
While  serried  thousands  round  them  stood, 
From  shore  of  Leith  to  Holyrood. 

VI. 
Though  Mary's  heart  was  light  as  air 
To  find  a  home  so  wild  and  fair, 
To  see  a  gathered  nation  by, 
And  rays  of  joy  from  every  eye, 
Though  frequent  shouts  the  welkin  broke, 
Though  courtiers  bowed,  and  ladies  spoke^ 
An  absent  look  they  oft  could  trace 
Deep  settled  on  her  comely  face. 
Was  it  the  thought  that  all  alone 
She  must  support  a  rocking  throne  ? 
That  Caledonia's  rugged  land 
Might  scorn  a  lady's  weak  command, 
And  the  Red  Lion's  haughty  eye 
^o.ovfl  at  a  maiden's  feet  to  lie  ? 

VII. 

No :  'twas  the  notes  of  Scottish  song, 
Soft  pealing  from  the  countless  throng. 
So  mellowed  came  the  distant  swell, 
That  on  her  ravished  ear  it  fell 
Like  dew  of  heaven,  at  evening  close, 
On  forest  flower  or  woodland  rose ; 
For  Mary's  heart,  to  nature  true, 
The  powers  of  song  and  music  knew  • 
But  all  the  choral  meaaures  bland 
Of  anthems  rung  in  southern  land, 
Appeared  a   useless  pile  of  art, 
Unfit  to  sway  or  melt  the  heart, 
Compared  with  that  which  floated  by,— 
Her  simple,  native  melody 


90  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES 


As  she  drew  nigh  the  Abbey  stile, 
She  halted,  reined,  and  bent  the  while : 
She  heard  the  Caledonian  lyre 
Pour  forth  its  notes  of  Runic  jSre : 
But  scarcely  caught  the  ravished  Queen 
The  minstrel's  song  that  flowed  between : 
Entranced  upon  the  strain  she  hung; 
'Twas  thus  the  gray -haired  minstrel  sung : — 

IX. 

THE    SONG. 

"  0  !  Lady  dear,  fair  is  thy  noon, 
But  man  is  like  the  inconstant  moon : 
Last  night  she  smiled  o'er  lawn  and  lea ; 
That  moon  will  change,  and  so  will  he. 

Thy  time,  dear  Lady,  's  a  passing  shower ; 
Thy  beauty  is  but  a  fading  flower : 
Watch  thy  young  bosom  and  maiden  eye  j 
For  the  shower  will  fall,  and  the  floweret  die  " 

X. 

What  ails  my  Queen  ?  said  good  Argyle ; 
Why  fades  upon  her  cheek  the  smile  ? 
Say,  rears  your  steed  too  fierce  and  high? 
Or  sits  your  golden  seat  awry  ? — 

XI. 

Ah  !  no,  my  Lord  !  this  noble  steed. 
Of  Rouen's  calm  and  generous  breed, 
Has  borne  me  over  hill  and  plain, 
Swift  as  the  dun-deer  of  the  Seine. 
But  such  a  wild  and  simple  lay, 
Poured  from  the  harp  of  minstrel  gray. 
My  every  sense  away  it  stole, 
And  swayed  awhile  my  raptured  soul. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  0] 

O  !  say,  my  Lord,  (for  you  must  know 
Wliat  strains  along  your  valleys  flow, 
And  all  the  hoards  of  Highland  lore,) 
Was  ever  song  so  sweet  before  ? 

XII. 

Replied  the  Earl  as  round  he  flung, — 
Feeble  the  strain  that  minstrel  sung  I 
My  royal  Dame,  if  once  you  heard, 
The  Scottish  lay  from  Highland  bard, 
Tten  might  you  say  in  raptures  meet, 
No  song  was  ever  half  so  sweet ! 
Ah  !  yes,  my  Queen  !  if  once  you  heard 
The  Scottish  lay  from  Highland  bard. 
Then  might  you  say  in  raptures  meet 
No  song  was  ever  half  so  sweet. 

XIII. 
Queen  Mary  lighted  in  the  court ; 
Queen  Mary  joined  the  evening's  sport; 
Yet,  though  at  table  all  were  seen 
To  wonder  at  her  air  and  mien, 
Though  courtiers  fawned  and  ladies  sung. 
Still  in  her  ear  the  accents  rung, — 

"  Watch  thy  young  hosoni  and  maiden  eye  ; 

For  the  shower  must  fall  and  the  floweret  die  T"* 


EXERCISE  XII. 

JOHK  LiNOARD  wi-  bom  in  Winchester,  England,  in  the  year  1771.  He 
died  in  July,  1851.  x£e  is  the  author  of  an  elaborate  History  of  England, 
flrom  which  the  follow  .ng  affecting  narrative  is  taken.  It  may  be  interesting 
to  know  that  Dr.  Liugard  was  a  clergyman  of  the  same  faith  with  Queen 
Mary. 


*  The  reference  is  to  her  melancholy  death,  for  an  account  of  which, 
aee  Exercise  XII 


9ii  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES. 

DEATH  OF  MARY,  QUEEN  OF  SCOTS. 

JOHN  L2N0AKD. 

1 .  In  the  midst  of  the  great  hall  of  the  castle  had  been  raised 
a  scaffold,  covered  with  black  serge,  and  surrounded  with  a  low 
railing.  About  seven,  the  doors  were  thrown  open;  the  gentle- 
men of  the  county  entered  with  their  attendants;  and  Paulet's* 
guard  augmented  the  number  to  between  one  hundred  and 
fifty  and  two  hundred  spectators.  Before  eight,  a  message  was 
sent  to  the  queen,  who  replied  that  she  would  be  ready  in  hall 
an  hour. 

2.  At  that  time,  Andrews,  the  sheriff,  entered  the  oratory, 
and  Mary  arose,  taking  the  crucifix  from  the  altar  in  her  right, 
and  carrying  her  prayer-book  in  her  left  hand.  Her  servants 
were  forbidden  to  follow ;  they  insisted ;  but  the  queen  bade 
them  to  be  content,  and  turning  gave  them  her  blessing.  They 
received  it  on  their  knees,  some  kissing  her  hands,  others  her 
mantle.  The  door  closed ;  and  the  burst  of  lamentation  from 
those  within  resounded  through  the  hall. 

3.  Mary  was  now  joined  by  the  earl  and  her  keepers,  and 
descending  the  staircase,  found  at  the  foot  Melville,  the  steward 
of  her  household,  who,  for  several  weeks,  had  been  excluded 
from  her  presence.  This  old  and  faithful  servant  threw  himself 
on  his  knees,  and  wringing  his  hands  exclaimed, — "Ah,  madam, 
unhappy  me !  was  ever  a  man  on  earth  the  bearer  of  such  sorrow 
as  I  shall  be,  when  I  report  that  my  good  and  gracious  queen 
and  mistress  was  beheaded  in  England !" 

4.  Here  his  grief  impeded  his  utterance ;  and  Mary  replied : 
"  Good  Melville,  cease  to  lament ;  thou  hast  rather  cause  to  joy 
than  mourn;  for  thou  shalt  see  the  end  of  Mary  Stuart's  troubles. 
Know  that  this  world  is  but  vanity,  subject  to  more  sorrow  than 
an  ocean  of  tears  can  bewail.  But  I  pray  thee,  report  that  I 
die  a  true  woman  to  my  religion,  to  Scotland,  and  to  Fraice, 

*  This  was  Sir  AmiasPaulet,  the  appointed  custodian  of  the  unfor- 
tunate queen.  How  unflinchingly  he  performed  his  office  may  be  in- 
ferred from  a  letter  of  Queen  Elizabeth  to  him,  in  which  she  says : — 
*' Amias,  mymost  faithful  and  careful  servant,  God  Almighty  reward 
thee  treblefold  for  thy  most  troublesome  charge  so  well  discharged." 


RHETORICAL    READER.  08 

May  God  forgive  them  that  have  long  thirsted  for  my  blood,  as 
the  hart  Joth  for  the  brooks  of  water.  O  God,  thou  art  the 
author  of  truth,  and  truth  itself  Thou  knowest  the  inward 
chambers  of  my  thoughts,  and  that  I  always  wished  the  union 
of  England  and  Scotland.  Commend  me  to  my  son,  and  tell 
him  that  I  have  done  nothing  prejudicial  to  the  dignity  or  in- 
dependence of  his  crown,  or  favorable  to  the  pretended  superiority 
of  oui  enemies."  Then  bursting  into  tears,  she  said, — "  Good 
Melville,  farewell;"  and  kissing  him,  "once  again,  good  Mel- 
ville, farewell,  and  pray  for  thy  mistress  and  thy  queen."  It 
was  remarked  as  something  extraordinary,  that  this  was  the  first 
time  in  her  life  that  she  had  ever  been  known  to  address  a  per- 
son with  the  pronoun  "  thou." 

5.  Drying  up  her  tears,  she  turned  from  Melville  and  mado 
her  last  request,  that  her  servants  might  be  present  at  her  death. 
But  the  Earl  of  Kent  objected  that  they  would  be  troublesome 
by  their  grief  and  lamentations,  might  practice  some  supersti- 
tious trumpery,  perhaps,  might  dip  their  handkerchiefs  in  hei 
grace's  blood.  "  My  lords,"  said  Mary,  "  I  will  give  my  word 
for  them.  They  shall  deserve  no  blame.  Certainly  your  mis- 
tress, being  a  maiden  queen,  will  vouchsafe,  in  regard  of  woman- 
hood, that  T  have  some  of  my  own  women  about  me  at  my 
death.'' 

6.  Receiving  no  answer,  she  continued, — "  You  might,  I  think, 
grant  me  a  far  greater  courtesy,  were  I  a  woman  of  lesser  calling 
than  the  Queen  of  Scots."  Still  they  were  silent ;  when  she 
asked  with  vehemence, — "  Am  I  not  the  cousin  to  your  queen,  a 
descendant  of  the  blood  royal  of  Henry  VII.,  and  the  anointed 
Queen  of  Scotland?"  At  these  words  the  fanaticism  of  the 
Earl  of  Kent  began  to  yield ;  and  it  was  resolved  to  admit  four 
of  her  men  and  two  of  her  women  servants.  She  selected  her 
steward,  physician,  apothecary,  and  surgeon,  with  her  maids 
Kennedy  and  Curie. 

7.  The  procession  now  set  forward.  It  was  headed  by  the 
sheriflF  and  his  officers ;  next  followed  Paulet  and  Drury,  and 
the  Earls  of  Shrewsbury  and  Kent  j  and  lastly  came  the  Scottish 
queen,  with  Melville  bearing  her  train.     She  wore  the  richest 


94  SANDERS'     UNION     SERIES. 

of  hex  dresses — that  which  was  appropriate  to  the  rank  of  a 
queen  dowager.  Her  step  was  firm,  and  her  countenance  cheer- 
ful. She  bore  without  shrinking  the  gaze  of  the  spectators,  and 
the  sight  of  the  scaffold,  the  block,  and  the  executioner,  and 
advanced  into  the  hall  with  that  grace  and  majesty  which  she 
had  so  often  displayed  in  her  happier  days,  and  in  the  palace 
of  her  fathers.  To  aid  her  as  she  mounted  the  scaffold,  Piulct 
off'ered  his  arm.  "I  thank  you,  sir,"  said  Mary;  "  it  is  the  las< 
trouble  I  shall  give  you,  and  the  most  acceptable  service  you 
have  ever  rendered  me." 

8.  The  queen  seated  herself  on  a  stool  which  was  prepared 
for  her.  On  her  right  stood  the  two  earls;  on  the  left  the 
sheriff  and  Beal,  the  clerk  of  the  council ;  in  front,  the  execu- 
tioner from  the  Tower,  in  a  suit  of  black  velvet,  with  his  assistant, 
also  clad  in  black.  The  warrant  was  read,  and  Mary,  in  an 
audible  voice,  addressed  the  assembly.  She  would  have  them 
recollect,  also,  that  she  was  a  sovereign  princess,  not  subject  to 
the  parliament  of  England,  but  brought  there  to  suffer  by  in- 
justice and  violence.  She,  however,  thanked  her  God  that  he 
had  given  her  this  opportunity  of  publicly  professing  her  reli- 
gion, and  of  declaring,  as  she  had  often  before  declared,  that 
she  had  never  imagined,  nor  compassed,  nor  consented  to,  the 
death  of  the  English  queen,  nor  ever  sought  the  least  harm  to 
her  person.  After  her  death,  many  things,  which  were  thcD 
buried  in  darkness,  would  come  to  light.  But  she  pardoned 
from  her  heart  all  her  enemies,  nor  should  her  tongue  utter  that 
which  might  turn  to  their  prejudice. 

9.  Here  she  was  interrupted  by  Dr.  Fletcher,  dean  of  Peter- 
borough, who,  having  caught  her  eye,  began  to  preach,  and 
under  cover,  perhaps,  through  motives  of  zeal,  contrived  to  insult 
the  feelings  of  the  unfortunate  sufferer.  Mary  repeated  y  de- 
sired him  not  to  trouble  himself  and  her.  He  persisted;  sho 
tur  led  aside.  He  made  the  circuit  of  the  scaffold,  and  again 
addressed  her  in  front.  An  end  was  put  to  this  extraordinary 
scene  by  the  Earl  of  Shrewsbury,  who  ordered  him  to  pray. 
His  prayer  was  the  echo  of  his  sermon ;  but  Mary  heard  him 
a'^t.     She  was  employed  at  the  time  in  her  devotions,  repeating 


RHETORICAL    READER.  95 

with  a  loud  voice,  and  in  the  Latin  language,  passages  from  the 
book  of  Psalms ;  and,  after  the  dean  was  reduced  to  silence,  a 
prayer  in  French,  in  which  she  begged  of  God  to  pardon  her 
sins,  declared  that  she  forgaye  her  enemies,  and  protested  that 
she  was  innocent  of  ever  consenting  in  wish  or  deed  to  the  death 
of  her  English  sister.  She  then  prayed  in  English  for  Christ's 
afflicted  church,  for  her  son  James,  and  for  queen  Elizabeth, 
and  in  conclusion,  holding  up  the  crucifix,  exclaimed, — "As  th^ 
sirms,  0  God,  were  stretched  out  upon  the  cross,  so  receive  mo 
into  the  arms  of  thy  mercy,  and  forgive  my  sins." 

10.  When  her  maids,  bathed  in  tears,  began  to  disrobe  their 
mistress,  the  executioners,  fearing  the  loss  of  their  usual  per- 
quisites, hastily  interfered.  The  queen  remonstrated,  but  in- 
stantly submitted  to  their  rudeness,  observing  to  the  earls  with 
a  smile,  that  she  was  not  accustomed  to  employ  such  grooms,  or 
to  undress  in  the  presence  of  so  numerous  a  company. 

11.  Her  servants,  at  the  sight  of  their  sovereign  in  this 
lamentable  state,  could  not  suppress  their  feelings ;  but  Mary, 
putting  her  finger  to  her  lips,  commanded  silence,  gave  them 
her  blessing,  and  solicited  their  prayers.  She  then  seated  her- 
self again.  Kennedy,  taking  from  her  a  handkerchief  edged 
with  gold,  pinned  it  over  her  eyes ;  the  executioners,  holding 
her  by  the  arms,  led  her  to  the  block ;  and  the  queen,  kneeling 
down,  said  repeatedly  Mith  a  firm  voice, — "Into  thy  hands,  0 
Lord,  I  commend  my  spirit." 

12.  But  the  sobs  and  groans  of  the  spectators  disconcerted 
the  headsman.  He  trembled,  missed  his  aim,  and  inflicted  a 
deep  wound  in  the  lower  part  of  the  skull.  The  queen  remained 
motionless ;  and,  at  the  third  stroke,  her  head  was  severed  from 
her  body.  When  the  executioner  held  it  up,  the  muscles  of  the 
face  were  so  strongly  convulsed,  that  the  features  could  not  be 
recfgnized.     He  cried  as  usual, — "God  save  queen  Elizabeth." 

"  So  perish  all  her  enemies !"  subjoined  the  dean  of  Peter« 
borough  r 

"  So  perish  all  the  enemies  of  the  gospel !"  exclaimed,  in  a 
still  louder  tone,  the  fanatical  Earl  of  Kent. 

Not  a  voice  was  heard  to  cry  amen.  Party  feeling  was  ab- 
sorbed in  admiration  and  pity. 


96  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIEB. 


EXERCISE  XIII. 

Jeremy  Taylor,  one  of  the  most  eminent  of  English  divines,  and  often 
styled  the  Shakspeare  of  theological  literature,  was  born  in  CambrtJge,  Eng- 
land, in,  or  about  the  year  lfi02.  He  was  remarkable  for  learning,  piety,  and 
eloquence,  and  for  a  style  singularly  vivid  and  imaginative.  His  chief  work 
is  entitled  "  Liberty  of  Prophesying,"  by  which  he  meant  Liberty  of  Preach- 
ing. The  beautiful  Fable  below  forms  the  close  of  that  famous  discourse. 
1e  says  he  found  it  in  the  books  of  the  Jews.     He  died  in  1667. 

A  Fable  is  a  species  of  Allegory  :*  being  a  short  fictitious  story  to 
2on"ey  or  enforce  a  moral.  It  is  sometimes  called  an  Apologue; 
though  this  latter  name  is  by  some  restricted  to  fables  in  which  brutes 
and  things  inanimate  are  made  to  talk  and  act  like  human  beings. 

TOLERATION :— An  Apologue. 

JEREMY  TATLOB. 

1.  When  Abraham  sat  at  his  tent  door,  according  to  his  cus- 
tom, waiting  to  entertain  strangers,  he  espied  an  old  man  stooping 
and  leaning  on  his  staflf,  weary  with  age  and  travel,  coming 
towards  him,  who  was  a  hundred  years  of  age. 

2.  He  received  him  kindly,  washed  his  feet,  provided  supper, 
and  caused  him  to  sit  down ;  but,  observing  that  the  old  man 
ate  and  prayed  not,  nor  begged  for  a  blessing  on  his  meat,  asked 
him  why  he  did  not  worship  the  God  of  Heaven  ?  The  old 
man  told  him  that  he  worshiped  the  fire  only,  and  acknowledged 
no  other  God;  at  which  answer  Abraham  grew  so  zealously 
angry,  that  he  thrust  the  old  man  out  of  his  tent,  and  exposed 
him  to  all  the  evils  of  the  night  and  an  unguarded  condition. 

3.  When  the  old  man  was  gone,  God  called  to  Abraham,  and 
asked  him  where  the  stranger  was  ?  He  replied, — "  I  thrust  him 
away  because  he  did  not  worship  Thee"  :  God  answered  him,  "I 
have  suffered  him  these  hundred  years,  although  he  dishonored 
me,  and  couldst  thou  not  endure  him  one  night,  when  he  gave 
thee  no  trouble  ?"  Upon  this,  saith  the  story,  Abraham  fetched 
him  back  again,  and  gave  him  hospitable  entertainment  and  wise 
instruction.  Go  thou  and  do  likewise,  and  thy  charity  will  be 
rewarded  by  the  God  of  Abraham. 

*  For  an  analysis  of  the  word  Allegory,  see  page  52. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  97 

EXERCISE  XIV. 

Henry  Ware,  Jr.,  D.  D.,  was  born  at  llingham,  Massachusetts,  April  7lsh, 
1794,  and  died  September  22d,  1843.  His  writings  are  numerous  and  im- 
portant, both  in  prose  and  verse.  They  are  mainly  on  theological  and 
devotional  themes,  and  executed  with  scholarly  taste  and  ability. 

ADDRESS  TO  THE  HEAVENLY  BODIES. 

HENRT  WARE,  JB. 
I. 

Tell  me,  ye  splendid  orbs !  as  from  your  throne 
Ye  mark  the  rolling  provinces  that  own 
Your  sway,  what  beings  fill  those  bright  abodes  ? 
How  formed,  how  gifted  ?  what  their  powers,  their  state, 
Their  happiness,  their  wisdom  ?     Do  they  bear 
The  stamp  of  human  nature  ?     Or  has  Grod 
Peopled  those  purer  realms  with  lovelier  forms 
And  more  celestial  minds  ?     Does  Innocence 
Still  wear  her  native  and  untainted  bloom  ? 

II. 

Has  War  trod  o'er  them  with  his  foot  of  fire  ? 
And  Slavery  forged  his  chains;  and  Wrath,  and  Hate, 
And  sordid  Selfishness,  and  cruel  Lust 
Leagued  their  base  bands  to  tread  out  light  and  truth, 
And  scatter  woe  where  Heaven  had  planted  joy  ? 
Or  are  they  yet  all  paradise,  unfallen 
And  uncorrupt  ?  existeace  one  long  joy. 
Without  disease  upon  the  frame,  or  sin 
Upon  the  heart,  or  weariness  of  life  j 
Hope  never  quenched,  and  age  unknown, 
And  death  unfeared ;  while  fresh  and  fadeless  youth 
Glows  in  the  light  from  Grod's  near  throne  of  love  ? 

III. 

Speak,  speak  !  the  mysteries  of  those  living  worlds 
Unfold!     No  language?     Everlasting  light 
And  everlasting  silence  ?     Yet  the  eye 
May  read  and  understand.     The  hand  of  God 
Has  written  legibly  what  man  may  know, 
The  glory  of  the  Maker.     There  it  shines 
5  6R 


ifS  SANDERS'     UNION     SERIES. 


EXERCISE  XV. 

John  Gat,  an  English  poet,  was  born  in  Deronshire,  England,  in  1688, 
and  died  in  1732.  His  "  Fablks,"  to  which  the  following  piece  is  introdae- 
toTj,  are  among  the  very  best  in  the  language. 

•  Pla'to,  a  celebrated  Greek  philosopher,  was  born  in  Athena  in  th« 
year  429  before  Christ,  and  died  in  348.     He  was  a  profound  thinker. 

^  Soc'rates,  a  famous  Grecian  philosopher,  was  born  in  Athens 
169  B.  c,  and  died  in  399.  He  was  an  earnest  advocate  of  practical 
msdom,  and,  by  his  stern  moral  teachings,  made  many  enemies. 
These,  finally,  procured  his  death  upon  a  charge  of  corrupting  the 
youth  of  the  city,  by  introducing  new  religious  opinions  and  despising 
the  national  gods. 

•  Ulys^'ses  was  one  of  the  early  princes  of  Greece,  and  greatly 
celebrated  for  his  wisdom  and  shrewdness.  He  was  among  the  fore- 
most of  those  engaged  in  the  Trojan  War. 

THE  SHEPHERD  AND  THE  PHILOSOPHER. 

/OHIT  SAT. 
T. 

Remote  from  cities  lited  a  swain 
Unvexed  with  all  the  cares  of  gain ; 
His  head  was  silvered  o'er  with  age, 
And  long  experience  made  him  sage ; 
Tn  summer's  heat  and  winter's  cold 
He  fed  his  flock  and  penned  the  fold; 
His  hours  in  cheerful  labor  flew, 
Nor  envy  nor  ambition  knew  : 
His  wisdom  and  his  honest  fame 
Through  all  the  country  raised  his  name. 

II. 
A  deep  Philosopher  (whose  rules 
Of  moral  life  were  drawn  from  schools,) 
The  Shepherd's  homely  cottage  sought, 
And  thus  explored  his  reach  of  thought:— 
Whence  is  thy  learning?  hath  thy  toil 
O'er  books  consumed  the  midnight  oil  ? 


RHET(»aiCATi    READER.  ftfl 

Hast  thou  old  Greece  and  Rome  surveyed, 
And  the  vast  sense  of  ]*lato^  weighed? 
Hatli  Socrates'  thy  soul  refined, 
And  hast  thou  fathomed  Tully's*  mind? 
Or,  like  the  wise  Ulysses,'  thrown, 
By  various  fates,  on  realms  unknown, 
Hast  thou  through  many  cities  strayed, 
Their  customs,  laws,  and  manners  weighed? 

III. 
The  Shepherd  modestly  replied, 
I  ne'er  the  paths  of  learning  tried  j 
Nor  have  I  roamed  in  foreign  part 
To  read  mankind,  their  laws  and  arts; 
For  man  is  practiced  in  disguise, 
He  cheats  the  most  discerning  eyes; 
Who  by  that  search  shall  wiser  grow, 
When  we  ourselves  can  never  know? 
The  little  knowledge  I  have  gained, 
VV^as  all  from  simple  nature  drained; 
Hence  my  life's  maxims  took  their  rise, 
Hence  grew  my  settled  hate  to  vice. 

IV. 

The  daily  labors  of  the  bee 
Awake  my  soul  to  industry; 
Who  can  observe  the  careful  ant. 
And  not  provide  for  future  want  ? 
My  dog  (the  trustiest  of  his  kind) 
With  gratitude  inflames  my  mind; 
I  mark  his  true,  his  faithful  way. 
And,  in  my  service,  copy  Tray. 
In  constancy  and  nuptial  love, 
I  learn  my  duty  from  the  dove. 

*  Marcus  TuUius  C.cero.     See  page  296, 


100  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES 

The  ben,  who  from  the  chilly  air, 
With  pious  wing,  protects  her  care, 
And  every  fowl  that  flies  at  large, 
Instruct  me  in  a  parent's  charge. 

V. 
From  nature,  too,  I  take  my  rule, 
To  shun  contempt  and  ridicule. 
r  never,  with  important  air, 
In  conversation  overbear. 
Can  grave  and  formal  pass  for  wise, 
When  men  the  solemn  owl  despise? 
My  tongue  within  my  lips  I  rein; 
For  who  talks  much,  must  talk  in  vain. 
We  from  the  wordy  torrent  fly ; 
Who  listens  to  the  chattering  pye? 
Nor  would  I,  with  felonious  sleight. 
By  stealth  invade  my  neighbor's  right. 
Rapacious  animals  we  hate: 
Kites,  hawks,  and  wolves,  deserve  their  fate. 

VI. 

Do  not  we  just  abhorrence  find 
Against  the  toad  and  serpent  kind? 
But  Envy,  Calumny,  and  Spite, 
Bear  stronger  venom  in  their  bite. 
Thus  every  object  of  creation 
Can  furnish  hints  to  contemplation ; 
And  from  the  most  minute  and  mean, 
A  virtuous  mind  can  morals  glean. 

VII. 

Thy  fame  is  just,  the  Sage  replies. 
Thy  virtue  proves  thee  truly  wise. 
Pride  often  guides  the  author's  pen| 
Books  as  affected  are  as  men : 


RHETORICAL    REAPER.  TO! 

But  he  who  studies  Nature's  laws, 
From  certain  truth  his  maxims  draws; 
And  those,  without  our  schools,  suffice 
To  make  men  moral,  good,  and  wise. 


EXERCISE  XVI. 


Pae'  a  ble  is  a  word  made  up  of  two  Greek  words  (Para,  beside,  aai 
Bole,  a  throwing),  signifying  the  act  of  throwing  or  placing  one  thing 
beside  another  for  the  purposes  of  comparison.  It  is  the  name  applied 
to  a  species  of  Allegory  (see  page  52),  and  differs  from  the  Fable  only, 
or  chiefly,  in  treating  of  things  spiritual,  and  in  not  violating  the  order 
of  things  in  real  life.  *'  The  excellence  of  a  parable,"  says  an  able 
writer,  "depends  on  the  propriety  and  force  of  the  comparison  on  which 
it  is  founded ;  on  the  general  fitness  and  harmony  of  its  parts ;  on  the 
obviousness  of  its  main  scope  or  design  ;  on  the  beauty  and  conciseness 
of  the  style  in  which  it  is  expressed;  and  on  its  adaptation  to  the 
circumstances  and  capacities  of  the  hearers."  The  one  here  given, 
besides  conveying  a  noble  moral  lesson,  furnishes  an  admirable  exercise 
in  reading. 

THE  PRODIGAL  SON  :— A  Parable. 

LUKE,  CHAP.  XV. 

1.  And  he  said,  A  certain  man  had  two  sons:  and  the 
younger  of  them  said  to  his  father.  Father,  give  me  the  portion 
of  goods  that  falleth  to  me.  And  he  divided  unto  them  his 
living.  And  not  many  days  after,  the  younger  son  gathered  all 
together,  and  took  his  journey  into  a  far  country,  and  there 
wasted  his  substance  with  riotous  living.  And  when  he  had 
spent  all,  there  arose  a  mighty  famine  in  that  land;  and  he 
began  "to  be  in  want.         ^ 

2.  And  he  went  and  joined  himself  to  a  citizen  of  that 
country ;  and  he  sent  him  into  his  fields  to  feed  swine.  And 
he  would  fain  have  filled  his  belly  with  the  husks  that  the 
swine  did  eat;  and  no  man  gave  unto  him.  And  when  he 
came  to  himself,  he  said.  How  many  hired  servants  of  my 
father's  have  bread  enough  and  to  spare,  and  I  perish  with 


l02  -^B-AND-ERS'  'UNION     SERIES. 

hunger !  I  will  arise  and  go  to  my  father,  and  will  say  unto 
him,  Father,  I  have  sinned  against  heaven,  and  before  thee, 
and  am  no  more  worthy  to  be  called  thy  son :  make  me  as  yae 
of  tliy  hired  servants. 

3.  And  he  arose,  and  came  to  his  father.  But  when  he  was 
yet  a  great  way  oflF,  his  father  saw  him,  and  had  compassion, 
and  ran,  and  fell  on  his  neck,  and  kissed  him.  And  the  son 
said  unto  him.  Father,  I  have  sinned  against  heaven,  and  in 
thy  sight,  and  am  no  more  worthy  to  be  called  thy  son.  But 
the  father  said  tc.  his  servants.  Bring  forth  the  best  robe,  and 
|)ut  it  on  him ;  and  put  a  ring  on  his  hand,  and  shoes  on  his 
feet:  and  bring  hither  the  fatted  calf,  and  kill  it;  and  let  ua 
eat,  and  be  merry :  for  this  my  son  was  dead,  and  is  alive 
again ;  he  was  lost,  and  is  found.  And  they  began  to  be 
merry. 

4.  Now  his  elder  son  was  in  the  field :  and  as  he  came  and 
drew  nigh  to  the  house,  he  heard  music  and  dancing.  And  he 
called  one  of  the  servants,  and  asked  what  these  things  meant. 
And  he  said  unto  him.  Thy  brother  is  come ;  and  thy  father 
hath  killed  the  fatted  calf,  because  he  hath  received  him  safe 
and  sound.  And  he  was  angry,  and  would  not  go  in ;  therefore 
came  his  father  out,  and  entreated  him. 

5.  And  he  answering,  said  to  his  father,  Lo,  these  many 
years  do  I  serve  thee,  neither  transgressed  I  at  any  time  thy 
commandment;  and  yet  thou  never  gavest  me  a  kid,  that  I 
might  make  merry  with  my  friends :  but  as  soon  as  this  thy  son 
was  come,  which  hath  devoured  thy  living  with  harlots,  thou 
hast  killed  for  him  the  fatted  calf.  And  he  said  unto  him, 
Son ,  thou  art  ever  with  me ;  and  all  that  I  have  is  thine.  It 
was  meet  that  we  should  make  merry,  and  be  glad :  for  this 
thy  brjther  was  dead,  and  is  alive  again;  and  was  lost,  and  is 
found. 


EHETOaiCAL    READER.  lO^ 


EXERCISE  XVII. 

Jane  Taylou  was  born  in  London  in  the  year  17S3.  She  died  in  1824 
She  began  to  make  verses  before  she  had  reached  her  ninth  year.  She  wrote 
much  and  wrote  well ;  and,  in  her  writings,  has  left  to  the  young  a  rich  legacy 
ol  mingled  enterUinment  and  instruction.     The  following  is  quite  in  her  vein. 

THE  VASE  AND  THE  PITCHER 

JANE  TAYLOR 


Oae  day,  when  a  grand  entertainment  was  ended, 
A  rich  china  Vase,  lately  come  from  abroad, 
In  which  every  tint  of  the  rainbow  was  blended. 
Spoke  thus  to  a  Pitcher  that  stood  on  the  board  :-^ 

n. 

"  I  hope,  rustic  neighbor,  you  don't  feel  distressed 
At  standing  before  me  so  shabbily  dressed: 
It  will  mitigate,  may  be,  your  feelings  to  know 
That,  though  so  superb,  I  can  stoop  to  the  low. 

III. 

"  'Tis  true  that,  before  I  arrived  from  abroad, 
Beyond  the  wide  Ganges,  I  lived  with  a  lord : 
*Tis  true,  in  the  west,  that  no  king  can  procure, 
For  his  service  of  state,  so  splendid  a  ewer. 

IV. 

"  *Tis  true  that  gay  ladies,  lit  feathers  and  pearls, 
Survey  and  admire  me — and  barons  and  earls : 
'Tis  true  that  I  am,  as  you  must  understand, 
Prodigiously  rich,  and  excessively  grand. 

V. 

"But  you,  paltry  bottle!  I  pity  your  fate: 
Whence  came  ye,  coarse  neighbor,  I  prithee  relate ; 
And  tell  us,  how  is  it  you  ever  endure 
S*^  graceless  a  shape,  and  so  vile  a  contour?" 


^04  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES. 

VI. 

The  Pitcher,  who  stood  with  his  hand  on  his  hip, 
Shrugged  up  his  round  shoulders  and  curled  his  brown  lip^ 
And  grave  to  appearance,  but  laughing  inside, 
He  thus  from  his  orifice  coolly  replied ; — 

vn 
•*  I  came,  noble  Vase,  from  the  cottage  below, 
Where  I  serve  a  poor  husbandman,  if  you  must  know  5 
And  my  trade,  might  I  venture  to  name  such  a  thing, 
Is  bringing  pure  water  each  morn  from  the  spring. 

VUI. 

"There's  a  notable  lass  who,  at  dawn  of  the  day, 
When  dewdrops  yet  glisten  on  meadow  and  spray, 
When  the  lark  soars  aloft,  and  the  breezes  are  cool, 
Sets  off  on  light  tiptoe  with  me  to  the  pool. 

IX. 

"  The  pool  is  surrounded  with  willow  and  ash. 
At  noon  in  the  sun,  its  dark  waters  will  flash; 
And,  through  the  deep  shade,  you  at  intervals  hear 
The  lowing  of  kine  in  the  meadow  land  near. 

X. 

"  The  sheep  with  their  lambkins  there  browse  at  their  ease, 
Beneath  the  cool  arch  of  embowering  trees ; 
While  low  creeping  herbs  give  their  sweets  to  the  air; 
Wild  thyme,  and  the  violet,  and  primrose  fair. 

XI. 

"  'Tis  here  that  myself  every  morning  she  bears ; 
Then  back  to  the  cot  in  the  valley  repairs : 
The  faggot  is  blazing,  the  breakfast  is  placed, 
And  appetite  sweetens  coarse  fare  to  the  taste. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  106 

XII. 
"  In  these  humble  services  passes  my  life, 
Remote  from  the  city,  its  noise  and  its  strife ; 
Though  homely,  I'm  fit  for  the  work  of  the  dayj 
And  I'm  not  ashamed  of  my  true  British  clay. 

XIII. 

*  And  now,  noble  Vase,  may  I  ask  if  'tis  true, 
That  you  stand  every  day  here  with  nothing  to  do? 
A  poor  idle  gentleman,  up  in  your  niche, 
Quite  useless,  and  nothing  but  handsome  and  rich ! 

XIV. 

"  They  neither  intrust  you  with  victuals  nor  drink ; 
You  must  have  but  a  poor  sorry  life  on't,  I  think ; 
And,  though  such  an  elegant  creature  you're  thought, 
Pray  are  you  not  tired  with  doing  of  naught  ?" 

But  the  Vase  would  not  answer  such  questions  as  these  j 
And  the  Pitcher  felt  glad  he  was  not  a  Chinese. 


EXERCISE  XVIII. 

William  Cowpbr,  the  subject  of  the  following  admirable  sketch,  was  born 
in  Hertfordshire,  England,  in  November  1731,  and  died  in  1800. 

COWPER  THE  POET. 

THOMAS  CAMPBELL. 

1 .  The  nature  of  Cowper's  works  makes  us  peculiarly  identify 
the  poet  and  the  man  in  perusing  them.  As  an  individual,  he 
was  retired  and  weaned  from  the  vanities  of  the  world;  and,  as 
an  original  writer,  he  left  the  ambitious  and  luxuriant  subjects 
of  fiction  and  passion,  for  those  of  real  life  and  simple  nature, 
and  for  the  development  of  his  own  earnest  feelings,  in  behalf 
of  moral  and  religious  truth, 

2.  His  language  has  such  a  masculine,  idiomatic  strength, 

5*  5R 


106  SANDERS'     UNION     SERIES. 

and  his  manner,  whether  he  rises  into  grace  or  falls  into  negli- 
gence, has  so  much  plain  and  familiar  freedom,  that  we  read  no 
poetry  with  a  deener  conviction  of  its  sentiments  having  come 
from  the  author's  heart;  and  of  the  enthusiasm,  in  whatever  he 
describes,  having  been  unfeigned  and  unexaggerated.  He 
impresses  us  with  the  idea  of  a  being,  whose  fine  spirit  had 
been  long  enough  in  the  mixed  society  of  the  world  to  be 
polished  by  its  intercourse,  and  yet  withdrawn  so  soon  as  to 
retain  an  unworldly  degree  of  purity  and  simplicity. 

3.  Ho  was  advanced  in  years  before  he  became  an  author; 
but  l.is  compositions  display  a  tenderness  of  feeling  so  youth- 
fully preserved,  and  even  a  vein  of  humor  so  far  from  being 
extinguished  by  his  ascetic  habits,  that  we  can  scarcely  regret 
his  not  having  written  them  at  an  earlier  period  of  life.  For 
he  blends  the  determination  of  age  with  an  exquisite  and 
ingenuous  sensibility  ;  and,  though  he  sports  very  much  with 
his  subjects,  yet,  when  he  is  in  earnest,  there  is  a  gravity 
of  long-felt  conviction  in  his  sentiments,  which  gives  an  un- 
common ripeness  of  character  to  his  poetry. 

4.  It  is  due  to  Cowper  to  fix  our  regard  on  this  unaffectedness 
and  authenticity  of  his  works,  considered  as  representations  of 
nimself,  because  he  forms  a  striking  instance  of  genius,  writing 
the  history  of  its  own  secluded  feelings,  reflections,  and  enjoy- 
mnnts,  in  a  shape  so  interesting  as  to  engage  the  imagination 
like  a  work  of  fiction.  He  has  invented  no  character  in  fable, 
nor  in  the  drama ;  but  he  has  left  a  record  of  his  own  character, 
which  forms  not  only  an  object  of  deep  sympathy,  but  a  subject 
for  the  study  of  human  nature.  His  verse,  it  is  tnie,  considered 
as  such  a  record,  abounds  with  opposite  traits  of  severity  and 
gentleness,  of  playfulness  and  superstition,  of  solemnity  and 
mirth,  which  appear  almost  anomalous ;  and  there  is,  undoubt- 
edly, sometimes  an  air  of  moody  versatility  in  the  extreme 
contrasts  of  his  feelings. 

5.  But  looking  to  his  poetry,  as  an  entire  structure,  it  has  a 
massive  air  of  sincerity.  It  is  founded  in  steadfast  principles 
of  belief;  and,  if  we  may  prolong  the  architectural  metaphor, 
though  its  arches  may  be  sometimes  gloomy,  its  tracery  sportive, 


RHETORICAL    READER.  107 

and  its  lights  and  shadows  grotesquely  crossed,  yet  altogether, 
it  still  forms  a  vast,. various,  and  interesting  monument  of  the 
builder's  mind.  Young's  works  are  as  devout,  as  satirical, 
sometimes  as  merry  as  those  of  Cowper;  and,  undoubtedly, 
more  witty.  But  the  melancholy  and  wit  of  Young  do  not 
maVe  up  to  us  the  idea  of  a  conceivable  or  natural  being.  He 
has  sketched,  in  his  pages^  the  ingenious,  but  incongruous  form 
of  a  fictitious  mind — Cowper's  soul  speaks  from  his  volumes. 

6.  Considering  the  tenor  and  circumstances  of  his  life,  it  is 
not  much  to  be  wondered  at,  that  some  asperities  and  peculiari- 
ties should  have  adhered  to  the  strong  stem  of  his  genius,  like 
the  moss  and  fungus  that  cling  to  some  noble  oak  of  the  forest, 
amidst  the  damps  of  its  unsunned  retirement. 


7.  In  addition  to  these  finely  appreciative  observations  of 
the  poet  Campbell,  himself  among  the  brightest  ornaments  in 
English  literature,  we  give,  as  showing  the  secret  of  his  success 
in  the  art  of  composition,  the  following  sentences  from  a  letter 
of  Cowper  to  one  of  his  most  intimate  friends  :  "To  touch  and 
retouch,"  says  he,  "  is,  though  some  writers  boast  of  negligence 
and  others  would  be  ashamed  to  show  their  foul  copies,  the 
secret  of  almost  all  good  writing,  especially  in  verse.  I  am 
never  weary  of  it  myself.  With  the  greatest  indifference  to  fame^ 
which  you  know  me  too  well  to  suppose  me  capable  of  affecting, 
T have  taken  the  utmost  pains  to  deserve  it. 

8  I  considered  that  the  taste  of  the  day  is  refined  and  delicate 
to  excess,  and  that  to  disgust  that  delicacy  of  the  taste  by  a 
slovenly  inattention  to  it,  would  be  to  forfeit  at  once  all  hope  of 
being  useful  j  and  for  this  reason,  though  I  have  written  more 
verse  this  year  than,  perhaps,  any  other  man  in  England,  I  have 
finished,  and  polished,  and  polished,  and  touched,  and  retouched 
witl  the  utmost  care.  Whatever  faults  I  may  be  chargeable 
with  as  a  poet,  I  cannot  accuse  myself  of  negligence:  I  never 
suffe.  a  line  to  pass  till  I  have  made  it  as  good  as  I  can  ;  and, 
though  some  may  be  offended  at  my  doctrines,  I  trust  none  will 
be  disgusted  by  slovenly  inaccuracy,  in  the  numbers,  the  rhymes. 


108  SANDERS'     ONION    SERIES. 

or  the  language.  If,  after  all,  I  should  be  converted  into  waste 
paper,  it  may  be  my  misfortune^  but  it  will  not  be  my  fauU;  and 
I  shall  bear  it  with  perfect  serenity." 


EXERCISE  XIX. 
PASSAGES  FROM  COTTPER. 

I. 
GOD  OBSERVED  IN  NA'^URE. 

Not  a  flower 
But  shcrws  some  touch  in  freckle,  streak,  or  stain, 
Of  His  unrivaled  pencil.     He  inspires 
Their  balmy  odors,  and  imparts  their  hues, 
And  bathes  their  eyes  with  nectar,  and  includes, 
In  grains  as  countless  as  the  sea-side  sands, 
The  forms  with  which  He  sprinkles  all  the  earth. 

n. 

LOVE  OF  LIBERTY. 

0  Liberty !  the  prisoner's  pleasing  dream, 

The  poet's  muse,  his  passion,  and  his  theme  j 

Genius  is  thine,  and  thou  art  Fancy's  nurse; 

Lost  without  thee  the  ennobling  powers  of  verse; 

Heroic  song  from  thy  free  touch  acquires 

Its  clearest  tone,  the  rapture  it  inspires : 

Place  me  where  Winter  breathes  his  keenest  air. 

And  I  will  sing,  if  Liberty  be  there ; 

And  I  will  sing  at  Liberty's  dear  feet, 

In  Afric's  torrid  clime,  or  India's  fiercest  heat. 

in. 

LOVE  OP  COUNTRY. 

England,  with  all  thy  faults  I  love  thee  still  I— 
My  country !  and,  while  yet  a  nook  is  left, 


RHErORICAL    READER.  J09 

Where  English  minds  and  manners  may  be  found, 
Sliall  be  constrained  to  love  thee.     Though  thy  clime 
Be  fickle,  and  thy  year  most  part  deformed 
With  dripping  rains,  or  withered  by  a  frost, 
I  would  not  yet  exchange  thy  sullen  skies, 
And  fields  without  a  flower,  for  warmer  France 
With  all  her  vines ;  nor  for  Ausonia's  groves 
Of  golden  fruitage,  and  her  myrtle  bowers." 

IV. 

WISDOM  AND  KNOWLEDGE. 

Knowledge  and  wisdom,  far  from  being  one. 
Have  ofttimes  no  connection.     Knowledge  dwells 
In  heads  replete  with  thoughts  of  other  men; 
Wisdom  in  minds  attentive  to  their  own. 
Knowledge,  a  rude  unprofitable  mass. 
The  mere  materials  with  which  Wisdom  builds, 
Till  smoothed  and  squared,  and  fitted  to  its  place, 
Does  but  encumber  whom  it  seems  to  enrich. 
Knowledge  is  proud  that  he  has  learned  so  much; 
Wisdom  is  humble  that  he  knows  no  more. 


THE  TRUE  FREEMAN. 

He  is  the  freeman  whom  the  truth  makes  free, 
And  all  are  slaves  beside.     There's  not  a  chain 
That  hellish  foes,  confederate  for  his  harm, 
Can  wind  around  him,  but  he  casts  it  ofiF 
With  as  much  ease  as  Samson  his  green  withes. 
He  looks  abroad  into  the  varied  field 
Of  nature,  and  though  poor,  perhaps,  compared 
With  those  whose  mansions  glitter  in  his  sight, 
Calls  the  delightful  scenery  all  his  own. 
His  are  the  mountains,  and  the  valleys  his, 
And  the  resplendent  rivers.     His  to  enjoy 
With  a  propriety  that  none  can  feel, 


110  BANDERS'     UNION     SERIES. 

But  who,  with  filial  confidence  inspired, 
Can  lift  to  heaven  an  uupresuuiptuous  eye, 
And  smiling  say — "  My  Father  made  them  all!" 

VI. 

AFFECTATION  IN  THE  PULPIT. 

In  man  or  woman,  but  far  most  in  man, 

And  most  of  all  in  man  that  ministers, 

And  serves  the  altar,  in  my  soul  I  loathe 

All  aflfectation.     'Tis  my  perfect  scorn  ; 

Object  of  my  implacable  disgust. 

What! — will  a  man  play  tricks, — ^will  he  indulge 

A  silly  fond  conceit  of  his  fair  form, 

And  just  proportion,  fashionable  mien, 

And  pretty  face,  in  presence  of  his  God  ? 

Or  will  he  seek  to  dazzle  me  with  tropes, 

As  with  the  diamond  on  his  lily  hand, 

And  play  his  brilliant  parts  before  my  eyes, 

When  I  am  hungry  for  the  bread  of  life? 

He  mocks  his  Maker,  prostitutes  and  shames 

His  noble  ofl&ce,  and,  instead  of  truth. 

Displaying  his  own  beauty,  starves  his  flock. 

VII. 

THE  POSITIVE  TALKER. 

Where  men  of  judgment  creep  and  feel  their  way, 
The  positive  pronounce  without  dismay; 
Their  want  of  light  and  intellect,  supplied 
By  sparks  absurdity  strikes  out  of  pride. 
Without  the  means  of  knowing  right  from  wrong, 
They  always  are  decisive,  clear,  and  strong ; 
Where  others  toil  with  philosophic  force. 
Their  nimble  nonsense  takes  a  shorter  course; 
Flings  at  your  head  conviction  in  the  lump. 
And  gains  remote  conclusions  at  a  jump: 


RHFTORICAL    READER.  Ill 

Their  own  defect  invisible  to  them, 
Seen  in  another,  they  at  once  condemn ; 
Aiid_  though  self- idolized  in  every  case, 
Hate  their  own  likeness  in  a  brother's  face. 


EXERCISE  XX 

Lorris  Kossuth,  the  celebrated  Hungarian  exile,  was  born  in  the  village 
of  Monok,  county  of  Zemplen,  April  27th,  1802.  During  his  visit  to  the 
United  States,  where  he  arrived  in  December,  1851,  he  was  everywhere 
receive!  with  the  most  flattering  distinctions.  At  a  banquet  given  him  by 
the  members  of  Congress,  at  which  he  was  addressed  by  General  Cass,  Daniel 
Webster,  and  others,  he  opened  his  speech  with  the  following  beautiful 
parallel. 

CiN''  E  AS  was  the  warm  friend  and  minister  of  Pyrrhus,  the  famoua 
king  of  Epirus.  He  was  the  most  eloquent  man  of  his  day.  Pyrrhus 
used  to  say  that  "the  words  of  Cineas  had  won  hira  more  cities  than 
his  own  arms."  The  most  famous  event  of  his  life  is  his  embassy  to 
Rome,  with  proposals  for  peace  from  Pyrrtius  to  the  Senate.  This  was 
in  the  year  before  Christ  280.  When  he  returned,  he  told  the  king  that 
there  was  no  people  like  the  Romans, — that  their  city  was  a  temple,  and 
their  Senate  an  assembly  of  kings. 

THE  SENATE  OF  ROxME  AND  THE  AMERICAN  CONGRESS. 

LOUIS   KOSSUTH. 

1.  Sir: — As  once  Cineas,  the  Epirote,  stood  among  the 
senators  of  Rome,  who,  witii  a  word  of  self-conscious  majesty, 
arrested  kings  in  their  ambitious  march,  tlius,  full  of  admiration 
and  of  reverence,  I  stand  among  you,  1(  gislators  of  the  neT» 
capitcl,  that  glorious  hall  of  your  people's  collective  majesty. 
The  capitol  of  old  yet  stands,  but  the  spirit  has  departed  from 
it,  and  is  come  over  to  yours,  purified  by  the  air  of  liberty. 
The  old  stands,  a  mournful  monument  of  the  fragility  of  human 
things ;  yours,  as  a  sanctuary  of  eternal  right.  The  old  beamed 
with  the  red  luster  of  conquest,  now  darkened  by  the  gloom  of 
oppression ;  yours  is  bright  with  freedom.  The  old  absorbed 
the  world  into  its  own  centralized  glory ;  yours  protects  your 


112  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES. 

own  nation  from  being  absorbed,  even  by  itself.  The  old  was 
awful  with  unrestricted  power;  yours  is  glorious  by  having 
restricted  it.  At  the  view  of  the  old,  nations  trembled  j  at  the 
vieM  of  yours,  humanity  hopes. 

2.  To  the  old,  misfortune  was  introduced  with  fettered  hands 
to  kneel  at  triumphant  conquerors'  feet ;  to  yours,  the  triumph 
of  introduction  is  granted  to  unfortunate  exiles,  who  are  invited 
U  the  honor  of  a  seat.  And,  where  kings  and  Caesars  never 
A-ill  be  hailed  for  their  power  and  wealth,  there  the  persecuted 
chief  of  a  down-trodden  nation  is  welcomed,  as  your  great 
Republic's  guest,  precisely  because  he  is  persecuted,  helpless, 
and  poor.  In  the  old,  the  terrible  vce  victis!*^  was  the  rule; 
in  yours,  protection  to  the  oppressed,  malediction  to  ambitious 
oppressors,  and  consolation  to  a  vanquished  just  cause.  And, 
while  from  the  old  a  conquered  world  was  ruled,  you  in  y^Tirs 
provide  for  the  common  federative  interests  of  a  territory  larger 
than  that  old  conquered  world.  There  sat  men  boasting  that 
their  will  was  sovereign  of  the  earth ;  here  sit  men  whose  glory 
is  to  acknowledge  ''  the  laws  of  nature  and  nature's  God,  and  to 
do  what  their  sovereign,  the  people,  wills.' 


EXERCISE  XXI. 

George  Washington  Doane,  second  bishop  of  the  Protest  .ot  Episcopal 
Church  in  the  state  of  New  Jersey,  was  born  at  Trenton,  in  that  state,  in 
1799,  and  died  at  Burlington  in  1859.  His  contributions  to  literature  are 
large  and  elegant,  both  in  prose  and  poetry.  The  following  admirable 
sketch  of  the  class  of  men  fit  tc  make  a  state,  is  from  ono  of  big  -allege 
addresses. 

THE  MEN  TO  MAKE  A  STATE. 

QEORGE  W.  OOANB. 

1.  The  men,  to  make  a  state,  must  be  intelligent 
MEN.  I  do  not  mean  that  they  must  know  that  two  and  two 
make  four;  or,  that  six  per  cent,  a  year  is  half  per  cent,  a 
month.     I  take  a  wider  and  a  higher  range.     I  limit  myself  to 


*  Woe  to  the  conquered. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  118 

no  mere  utilitarian  intelligence  This  has  its  place.  And  this 
will  come  almost  unsought.  The  contact  of  the  rough  and 
rugged  world  will  force  men  to  it  in  self-defense.  The  lust  of 
worldly  gain  will  drag  men  to  it  for  self-aggrandizement.  But 
men  w  made,  will  never  make  a  state.  The  intelligence  which 
that  demands,  will  take  a  wider  and  a  higher  range.  Its  study 
will  be  man.  It  will  make  history  its  cheap  experience.  It 
will  read  hearts.  It  will  know  men.  It  will  first  know  iudf. 
What  elsi  can  govern  men  ?  Who  else  can  know  the  men  to 
govern  men  ?  The  right  of  suffrage  is  a  fearful  thing.  It  calls 
for  wisdom,  and  discretion,  and  intelligence,  of  no  ordinary 
standard.  It  takes  in,  at  every  exercise,  the  interests  of  all  the 
nation.  Its  results  reach  forward  through  time  into  eternity. 
Its  discharge  must  be  accounted  for  among  the  dread  respon- 
sibilities of  the  great  day  of  judgment.  Who  will  go  to  it 
blindly  ?  Who  will  go  to  it  passionately  ?  Who  will  go  to  it, 
as  a  sycophant,  a  tool,  a  slave  ?  How  many  do  I  These  are  not 
the  men  to  make  a  state. 

2.  The  men,  to  make  a  state,  must  be  honest  men.  I 
do  not  mean  men  that  would  never  Ueal.  I  do  not  mean  men 
that  would  scorn  to  cheat  in  making  change.  I  mean  men 
with  a  single  face.  I  mean  men  with  a  single  eye.  I  mean 
men  with  a  single  tongue.  I  mean  men  that  consider  always 
what  is  riglit ;  and  do  it  at  whatever  cost.  I  mean  men  who 
can  dine,  like  Andrew  Marvel,  on  a  neck  of  mutton;  and  whom, 
therefore,  no  king  on  earth  can  huy.  Men  that  are  in  the 
market  for  the  highest  bidder;  men  that  make  politics  their 
trade,  and  look  to  office  for  a  living  ;  men  that  will  crawl,  where 
they  cannot  climb  :  these  are  not  the  men  to  make  a  state. 

3.  The  men,  to  make  a  state,  must  be  brave  men.  I 
do  not  mean  the  men  that  pick  a  quarrel.  I  do  not  mean  the 
men  that  carry  dirks.  I  do  not  mean  the  men  that  call  them- 
selves hard  names ;  as  Bouncers,  Killers,  and  the  like.  I  mean 
the  men  that  walk  with  open  face  and  unprotected  breast.  I 
mean  the  men  that  do,  but  do  not  talk.  I  mean  the  men  that 
dare  to  stand  alone.  I  mean  the  men  that  are  to-day  where 
they  were  yesterday,  and  will  be  there  to-morrow.     I  mean  the 

U 


114  BANDERS'     UNION     SERIES. 

men  that  can  stand  still  aud  take  the  storm.  I  mean  the  men 
that  are  afraid  to  kiJl^  but  not  afraid  to  die.  The  man  that 
calls  hard  names  and  uses  threats ;  the  man  that  stabs,  in  secret, 
with  his  tongue  or  with  his  pen ;  the  man  that  moves  a  mob  to 
deeds  of  violence  and  self-destruction ;  the  man  that  freely 
offers  his  last  drop  of  blood,  but  never  sheds  the  y?rs^;  these  a:e 
not  the  men  to  make  a  state. 

4.  The  men,  to  make  a  state,  must  be  religious  men. 
Bfcates  are  from  God.  States  are  dependent  upon  God.  States 
are  accountable  to  God.  To  leave  God  out  of  states,  is  to  be 
Atheists.  I  do  not  mean  that  men  must  cant.  I  do  not  mean 
that  men  must  wear  long  faces.  I  do  not  mean  that  men  must 
talk  of  conscience^  while  they  take  your  spoons.  One  shrewdly 
called  hypocrisy,  the  tribute  which  vice  pays  to  virtue.  These 
masks  and  vizors,  in  like  manner,  are  the  forced  concession 
which  a  moral  nature  makes  to  him,  whom,  at  the  same  time,  it 
dishonors.  I  speak  of  men  who  feel  and  own  a  God.  I  speak 
of  men  who  feel  and  own  their  sins.  I  speak  of  men  who  think 
the  Cross  no  shame.  I  speak  of  men  who  have  it  in  their  heart 
as  well  as  on  their  brow.  The  men  that  own  no  future,  the 
men  that  trample  on  the  Bible,  the  men  that  never  pray,  are 
not  the  men  to  make  a  state. 

6.  The  men,  to  make  a  state,  are  made  by  faith.  A 
man  that  has  no  faith,  is  so  much  fiesh.  His  heart,  a  muscle; 
nothing  more.  He  has  no  past,  for  reverence;  no  future,  iot 
reliance.  He  lives.  So  does  a  clam.  Both  die.  Such  men 
can  never  make  a  state.  There  must  be  faith,  which  furnishes 
the  fulcrum  Archimedes*  could  not  find,  for  the  long  lever  that 
should  move  the  world.  There  must  be  faith  to  look  through 
clouds  and  storms  up  to  the  sun  that  shines  as  cheerily  on  high 
as  on  creation's  morn.  There  must  be  faith  that  can  lay  hold 
on  Heaven,  and  let  the  earth  swing  from  beneath  it,  if  God  wiU. 
There  must  be  faith  that  can  afford  to  sink  the  present  in  the 
future;  and  let  time  go,  in  its  strong  grasp  upon  eternity. 
This  is  the  way  that  men  are  made,  to  make  a  state. 

*  Au  CHI  me'  des.  a  celebrated  malhematician  of  antiquity,  born  on 
the  island  of  Sicily  about  the  year  287  before  Christ. 


rhetorical  reader.  115 

6.  The  men,  to  make  a  state,  are  made  by  self-denial. 
The  willow  dallies  with  the  water,  and  is  fanned  forever  by  its 
coolest  breeze,  and  draws  its  waves  up  in  continual  pulses  of 
refreshment  and  delight ;  and  is  a  willoic,  after  all.  An  acorn 
has  been  loosened,  some  autumnal  morning,  by  a  squirifel's  foot. 
It  finds  a  nest  in  some  rude  cleft  of  an  old  granite  rock,  where 
there  is  scarcely  earth  to  cover  it.  It  knows  no  shelter,  and  it 
feels  no  shade.  It  squares  itself  against  the  storms.  It  shoulders 
through  the  blast.  It  aslcs  no  favor,  and  (/ives  none.  It  grapples 
with  the  rock.  It  crowds  up  toward  the  sun.  It  is  an  oak.  It 
has  been  seventy  years  an  oak.  It  will  be  an  oak  for  seven 
times  seventy  years ;  unless  you  need  a  man-of-war  to  thunder 
at  the  foe  that  shows  a  fiag  upon  the  shore,  where  freemen  dwell : 
and  then  you  take  no  willow  in  its  daintiness  and  gracefulness ; 
but  that  old,  hardy,  storm-stayed  and  storm-strengthened  oak. 
So  are  the  men  made  that  will  make  a  state. 

7.  The  men,  to  make  a  state,  are  themselves  made  by 
obedience.  Obedience  is  the  health  of  human  hearts:  obedi- 
ence to  God;  obedience  to  father  and  to  mother,  who  are,  to 
children,  in  the  place  of  God;  obedience  to  teachers  and  to 
masters,  who  are  in  the  place  of  father  and  of  mother;  obedi- 
ence to  spiritual  pastors,  who  are  God's  ministers ;  and  to  the 
powers  that  be,  which  are  ordained  of  God.  Obedience  is  but 
self-government  in  action :  and  he  can  never  govern  men  who 
does  not  govern  first  himself.    Only  such  men  can  make  a  state. 


EXERCISE  XXII. 

JoHAKN  CnmsTOPH  FniEDRicH  Schiller,  one  of  the  best  of  Germail  poctr 
ar.d  historians,  was  born  in  WUrtcmberg  in  the  year  1759,  and  died  in  1805. 
"  The  primary  vocation  of  his  nature,"  says  Carlyle,  "  was  poetry ;  the  ac- 
quisitions of  his  other  faculties  served  but  as  the  materials  for  his  poetical 
faculty  to  act  upon,  and  seemed  imperfect  till  they  had  been  sublimated  into 
the  perfect  forms  of  beauty,  which  it  is  the  business  of  this  to  elicit  fronc 
them." 

Edwaku  LvrioN  Bui.vvi,K,  Lord  J^yttou,  tiie  celcbvattjJ  i:]iJL,'-i=>-t  uovelist 
and  politiciau,    wuij   burn   in  tiic  county  of  Norfolk,   in    1805.    Ho  is  tba 


116  SANDERS'     UNION     SERIES. 

author  of  many  w  )?ks,  and,  among  them,  one  entitled  "Poems  and  Balladfl 
of  Schiller,"  being  translations  from  the  German  into  English  meter.  From 
this  work  we  take  the  following  very  interesting  piece. 

*  Chartb''di8  {ka  ryh  dis),  a  whirlpool  between  Italy  and  Sicily,  said, 
in  ancient  times,  to  have  been  very  dangerous;  hence,  generally,  a 
ffulf,  or  whirlpool. 

'  Mael'^strom  [male  strum)  is,  literally,  a  mill-stream ;  the  fearful 
vortex,  or  whirlpool  oflF  the  coast  of  Norway,  being  so  called  becauM 
of  its  violent  whirling  motion.  The  word  is  thence  often  applied,  like 
Charybdis,  to  any  dangerous  gulf,  or  whirlpool. 

THE  DIVER. 

FKOM  THK  GERMAN  07  SCHnjJBB  BT  BULWSS. 
I. 

"  Oh,  where  is  the  knight  or  the  squire  so  bold 
As  to  dive  to  the  howling  Charybdis*  below? — 

I  cast  in  the  whirlpool  a  goblet  of  gold, 
And  o'er  it  already  the  dark  waters  flow ; 

Whoever  to  me  may  the  goblet  bring, 

Shall  have  for  his  guerdon  that  gift  of  his  king." 

n. 

He  spoke,  and  the  cup  from  the  terrible  steep, 
That,  rugged  and  hoary,  hung  over  the  verge 

Of  the  endless  and  measureless  world  of  the  deep. 
Swirled  into  the  maelstrom'  that  maddened  the  sur^. 

"  And  where  is  the  diver  so  stout  t.o  go— 

I  ask  ye  again — to  the  deep  below  ?" 

Ill 

And  the  knights  and  the  squires  that  gathered  around, 
Stood  silent — and  fixed  on  the  ocean  their  eyes; 

They  looked  on  the  dismal  and  savage  Profound, 

And  the  peril  chilled  back  every  thought  of  the  prize 

And  thrice  spoke  the  monarch — "  The  cup  to  win. 

Is  there  never  a  wight  who  will  venture  in  V* 


RHETORICAL    READER.  117 

IV. 

And  all,  as  before,  heard  in  silence  the  king, 

Till  a  youth  with  an  aspect  unfearing  but  gentle, 

*Mid  the  tremulous  squires — stepped  out  from  the  ring, 
Unbuckling  his  girdle,  and  doflSng  his  mantle ; 

And  the  murmuring  crowd,  as  they  parted  asunder, 

Od  the  stately  boy  cast  their  looks  of  wonder. 

V. 

As  he  strode  to  the  marge  of  the  summit,  and  gave 
One  glance  on  the  gulf  of  that  merciless  main, 

Lo !  the  wave  that  forever  devours  the  wave, 
Casts  roaringly  up  the  Charybdis  again ; 

And,  as  with  the  swell  of  the  far  thunder-boom, 

Rushes  foamingly  forth  from  the  heart  of  the  gloom. 

VI. 

And  it  bubbles  and  seethes,  and  it  hisses  and  roars, 
As  when  fire  is  with  water  commixed  and  contending, 

And  the  spray  of  its  wrath  to  the  welkin  up-soars, 
And  flood  upon  flood  hurries  on,  never  ending  j 

And  it  never  will  rest,  nor  from  travail  be  free, 

Like  a  sea  that  is  laboring  the  birth  of  a  sea. 


Yut,  at  length,  comes  a  lull  o'er  the  mighty  commotion, 

And  dark  through  the  whiteness,  and  still  through  the  swell, 

The  whirlpool  cleaves  downward  and  downward  m  ocean, 
A  yawning  abyss,  like  the  pathway  to  hell ; 

The  stiller  and  darker  the  farther  it  goes, 

Racked  into  that  smoothness  the  breakers  repose. 

vrn. 

The  youth  gave  his  trust  to  his  Maker !     Before 
That  path  through  the  riven  abyss  closed  again, 


118  SANDERS'     UNION     SERIES. 

Hark !  a  shriek  from  tlie  gazers  that  circle  the  shore, — 
And,  behold !  he  is  whirled  in  the  grasp  of  the  main  I 
And  o'er  him  the  breakers  mysteriously  rolled, 
And  the  giant  mouth  closed  on  the  swimmer  so  bold. 

IX. 

All  wa*  still  on  the   hight,  save  the  murmur  that  went 
From  the  grave  of  the  deep,  sounding  hollow  and  fell, 

Or  save  when  the  tremulous  sighing  lament 

Thrilled  from  lip  unto  lip, — "  Gallant  youth,  fare  thee  well  V 

More  hollow  and  more  wails  the  deep  on  the  ear — 

More  dread  and  more  dread  grows  suspense  in  its  fear. 

X. 

If  thou  shouldst  in  those  waters  thy  diadem  fling, 
And  cry, — "Who  may  find  it,  shall  win  it  and  wear; 

Grod  wot,  though  the  prize  were  the  crown  of  a  king — 
A  crown,  at  such  hazard,  were  valued  too  dear. 

For  never  shall  lips  of  the  living  reveal 

What  the  deeps  that  howl  yonder  in  terror  conceal. 

XI. 

Oh,  many  a  bark,  to  that  breast  grappled  fast, 

Has  gone  down  to  the  fearful  and  fathomless  grave  ^ 

Again,  crashed  together  the  keel  and  the  mast, 
To  be  seen  tossed  aloft  in  the  glee  of  the  wave ! 

Like  the  growth  of  a  storm,  ever  louder  and  clearer, 

Grows  the  roar  of  the  gulf  rising  nearer  and  nearer. 

XII. 

And  it  bubbles  and  seethes,  and  it  hisses  and  roars, 
As  when  fire  is  with  water  commixed  and  contending; 

And  the  spray  of  its  wrath  to  the  welkin  up-soars. 
And  flood  upon  flood  hurries  on,  never  ending. 

And  as  with  the  swell  of  the  far  thunder-boom, 

Rushes  roaringly  forth  from  the  heart  of  the  gloom. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  119 

XIII. 

And,  lo  !  from  the  heart  of  that  far-floating  'gloom, 
Like  the  wing  of  the  cygnet — what  gleams  on  the  sea? 

Lo !  an  arm  and  a  neck  glancing  up  from  the  tomb ! 
Steering  stalwart  and  shoreward.     0  joy,  it  is  he  ! 

Tho  left  hand  is  lifted  in  triumph ;  behold, 

Tt  -waves  as  a  trophy  the  goblet  of  gold  ! 

XIV. 
And  he  breathed  deep,  and  he  breathed  long, 

And  he  greeted  the  heavenly  delight  of  the  day. 
They  gaze  on  each  other — they  shout  as  they  throng — 

"  He  lives — lo,  the  ocean  has  rendered  its  prey! 
And  safe  from  the  whirlpool  and  free  from  the  grave, 
Comes  back  to  the  daylight  the  soul  of  the  brave  I" 

XV. 

And  he  comes,  with  the  crowd  in  their  clamor  and  glee; 

And  the  goblet  his  daring  has  won  from  the  water, 
He  lifts  to  the  king  as  he  sinks  on  his  knee — 

And  the  king  from  her  maidens  has  beckoned  his  dau^^hter 
She  pours  to  the  boy  the  bright  wine  which  they  bring. 
And  thus  spoke  the  Diver — "Long  life  to  the  King! 

XVI. 

'*  Happy  they  whom  the  rose-hues  of  daylight  rejoice, 
The  air  and  the  sky  that  to  mortals  are  given ! 

May  the  horror  below  never  more  find  a  voice— 
Nor  man  stretch  too  far  the  wide  mercy  of  Heaven  I 

Nevermore,  nevermore  may  he  lift  from  the  sight 

The  vail  which  is  woven  with  terror  and  night ! 

XVII. 

•Quick  brightening  like  lightning,  the  ocean  rushed  o'er  me, 
Wild  floating,  borne  down  fathom-deep  from  the  d.iy; 

Jill  a  torrent  rushed  out  on  the  torrents  that  bore  ma, 
And  doubled  the  tempest  that  whirled  me  away. 


120  SANDERS'     UNION    SERIES. 

Vain,  vain  was  my  struggle — the  circle  had  won  me, 
Round  and  round  in  its  dance  the  mad  element  spun  me. 

XVIII. 

*'  From  the  deep,  then  I  called  upon  God,  and  He  heard  mo, 
In  the  dread  of  my  need,  He  vouchsafed  to  mine  eye 

A  rock  jutting  out  from  the  grave  that  interred  me ; 
I  sprung  there,  I  clung  there,  and  death  passed  me  by, 

A.nd,  lo  I  where  the  goblet  gleamed  through  the  abyss, 

By  a  coral  reef  saved  from  the  far  Fathomless. 

XIX. 

"  Below,  at  the  foot  of  that  precipice  drear, 

Spread  the  gloomy,  and  purple,  and  pathless  Obscure ! 

A  silence  of  horror  that  slept  on  the  ear. 

That  the  eye  more  appalled  might  the  horror  endure  I 

Salamander,  snake,  dragon — vast  reptiles  that  dwell 

In  the  deep — coiled  about  the  grim  jaws  of  their  hell. 

XX. 

"  Dark  crawled,  glided  dark  the  unspeakable  swarms, 
Clumped  together  in  masses,  misshapen  and  vast; 

Here  clung  and  here  bristled  the  fashionless  forms; 

Here  the  dark  moving  bulk  of  the  hammer-fish  passed; 

And,  with  teeth  grinning  white,  and  a  menacing  motion, 

Went  the  terrible  shark — the  hyena  of  ocean. 

XXI. 

"  There  I  hung,  and  the  awe  gathered  icily  o'er  me, 

So  far  from  the  earth,  where  man's  help  there  was  nonol 

The  one  human  thing,  with  the  goblins  before  me — 
Alone — in  a  loneness  so  ghastly — alone  ! 

Peep  under  the  reach  of  the  sweet  living  breath. 

And  begirt  with  the  broods  of  the  desert  of  death. 

XXII. 

**  Methought,  as  I  gazed  through  the  darkness,  that  now 
I  saw  a  dread  hundred-limbed  creature — its  prey  I — 


RHETORICAL    READER.  121 

A.nd  darted,  devouring;  I  spiaLg  from  the  bough 

Of  the  coral,  and  swept  on  the  horrible  way ; 
And  the  whirl  of  the  mighty  wave  seized  me  once  more, 
It  seized  me  to  save  me,  and  dash  to  the  shore." 

XXIII. 

On  the  youth  gazed  the  monarch,  and  marveled :  quoth  he, 
"  Bold  diver,  the  goblet  I  promised  is  thine ; 

A.nd  this  ring  I  will  give,  a  fresh  guerdon  to  thee — 
Never  jewels  more  precious  shone  up  from  the  mine — 

If  thou' It  bring  me  fresh  tidings,  and  venture  again, 

To  say  what  lies  hid  in  the  innermost  main  !" 

XXIV. 

Then  out  spake  the  daughter  in  tender  emotion — 
"Ah!  father,  my  father,  what  more  can  there  rest? 

Enough  of  this  sport  with  the  pitiless  ocean — 

He  has  served  thee  as  none  would,  thyself  hast  confest. 

If  nothing  can  slake  thy  wild  thirst  of  desire, 

Let  thy  knights  put  to  shame  the  exploit  of  the  squire ! 

f,.  XXV. 

The  king  seized  the  goblet,  he  swung  it  on  high, 
And  whirling,  it  fell  in  the  roar  of  the  tide ; 

"  But  bring  back  that  goblet  again  to  my  eye, 

And  I'll  hold  thee  the  dearest  that  rides  by  my  sidej 

And  thine  arms  shall  embrace,  as  thy  bride,  I  decree. 

The  maiden  whose  pity  now  pleadeth  for  thee." 

XXVI. 

And  heaven,  as  he  listened,  spoke  out  from  the  space. 
And  the  hope  that  makes  heroes  shot  flame  from  his  eyes 

He  gazed  on  the  blush  in  that  beautiful  face — 
It  pales — at  the  feet  of  her  father  she  lies  ! 

How  priceless  the  guerdon  !  a  moment — a  breath — 

And  headlong  he  plunges  to  life  and  to  death  I 
6  6R 


122  SANDERS'     UNION     SERIES. 

XXVII. 

Thej  hear  the  loud  surges  sweep  back  in-  their  swell) 
Their  coming  the  thunder-sound  heralds  along ! 

Fond  eyes  yet  are  tracking  the  spot  where  he  fell, 
They  come,  the  wild  waters,  in  tumult  and  throng 

Roaring  up  to  the  cliff — roaring  back  as  before, 

But  no  wave  ever  brings  the  lost  youth  to  the  shore  I 


EXERCISE  XXIII. 
HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

NEW  AM.  CTCLOIJBDIA. 

1.  The  wide  range  of  Mr.  Longfellow's  studies,  at  an  early 
period  of  life,  as  well  as  his  introduction  to  the  picturesque  and 
quaint  features  of  society  and  manners  in  foreign  nations,  has 
served  to  give  a  certain  cosmopolitan  character  to  the  productions 
rf  his  pen.  As  a  translator,  he  is  singularly  happy  in  trans- 
fusing not  only  the  ideas,  but  the  spirit  of  his  originals,  into  apt 
and  expressive  diction;  as  a  critic,  whether  commenting  on 
character  or  literature,  he  is  the  genial  interpreter,  rather  than 
the  censorious  judge;  and,  as  a  poet,  he  appeals  to  the  universal 
aft'ections  of  humanity,  by  thoughts  and  images  derived  from 
original  perceptions  of  nature  and  life. 

2.  His  fellow  feeling  with  his  kind  gives  him  easy  admission 
to  the  common  heart.  Averse,  both  by  temperament  and  habit, 
to  everything  harsh,  bitter,  disdainful,  or  repellent,  there  is  no 
element  in  his  poetry  to  call  forth  an  ungracious  or  discordant 
emotion.  It  is  always  tolerant  and  human,  kindled  by  wide 
sympathies,  and  with  a  tender  sense  of  every  variety  of  human 
condition.  Mr.  Longfellow  combines,  in  a  rare  degree,  the  senti- 
ment  of  the  artist,  with  the  practical  instincts  of  the  man  of 
the  world.  His  thoughts  are  uniformly  lucid  and  transparent, 
and  never  clouded  by  fanciful  speculations.  The  clearness, 
simplicity,  and  force  of  his  leading  conceptions,  leave  the  im 
pression  of  unity  even  on  his  longest  poems.  However  vivid 
his  imagery,  it  never  seduces  the  attention  from  his  main  idea. 


RHETORICAL     READER.  12Z 

3.  Without  attempting  to  represent  the  depths  of  passion,  in 
his  own  sphere  of  feeling,  he  is  a  genuine  master,  and  the 
purity,  sweetness,  and  refinement  with  which  he  delineates  the 
affections  of  the  heart,  make  him  the  most  welcome  of  visitants  at 
the  domestic  fireside.  Though  not  destitute  of  the  creative  and 
shaping  faculty,  the  best  expression  of  his  imagination  is,  per- 
haps, to  be  found  in  the  subtle  essence  of  beauty  which  pervades 
his  writings,  and  seems  to  form  the  natural  atmosphere  of  his 
mind.  His  susceptibility  to  the  historical  associations  of  Europe 
lends  a  peculiar  charm  to  his  poetry.  The  antiquities  of  Nurem- 
burg  and  Bruges  make  but  a  faint  impression  on  the  Bavarians 
and  Belgians  who  grow  up  in  the  shade  of  the  quaint  town  hall, 
or  within  the  sound  of  the  lofty  belfry;  but  they  cast  a  spell 
over  the  imagination  of  the  poet,  and  haunt  him  with  perpetual 
visions  of  romance. 


EXERCISE  XXIV. 

"The  Song  of  Hiawatha,"  says  Mr.  Longfellow,  "is  founded  on  a 
tradition  prevalent  among  the  North  American  Indians,  of  a  personage 
of  miraculous  birth,  who  was  sent  among  them  to  clear  their  rivers, 
forests,  and  fishing-grounds,  and  to  teach  them  the  arts  of  peace.  Into 
this  old  tradition  I  have  woven  other  curious  Indian  legends,  drawn 
chiefly  from  the  various  and  valuable  writings  of  Mr.  Schoolcraft,  to 
whom  the  literary  world  is  greatly  indebted  for  his  indefatigable  zeal 
in  rescuing  from  oblivion  so  much  of  the  legendary  lore  of  the  Indians. 
The  scene  of  the  poem  is  among  the  Ojibways  on  the  southern  shore 
of  Lake  Superior."  The  following  are  among  the  0T)<»mug  lines  of  this 
interesting  poem. 

THE  SONG  OF  HIAWATFA, 

I. 

In  the  vale  of  Tawasentha, 
In  the  green  and  silent  valley, 
By  the  pleasant  water-courses. 
Dwelt  the  singer  Nawadaha. 


124  8ANDER8'    UNION    SERIES. 

There  he  sang  of  Hiawatha, 

Sang  the  song  of  Hiawatha, 

Sang  his  wondrous  birth  and  being, 

How  he  prayed,  and  how  he  fasted. 

How  he  Hved,  and  toiled,  and  suflfered, 

That  the  tribes  of  men  might  prosper, 

That  he  might  advance  his  people. 

II. 

Ye  who  love  the  haunts  of  Nature, 
Love  the  sunshine  of  the  meadow, 
Love  the  shadow  of  the  forest, 
Love  the  wind  among  the  branches. 
And  the  rain-shower,  and  the  snow-storm, 
And  the  rushing  of  great  rivers, 
Listen  to  these  wild  traditions, 
To  this  Song  of  Hiawatha. 

III. 
Ye  who  love  a  nation's  legends. 
Love  the  ballads  of  a  people. 
That  like  voices  from  afar  oflF 
Call  to  us  to  pause  and  listen. 
Speak  in  tones  so  plain  and  childlike, 
Scarcely  can  the  ear  distinguish 
Whether  they  are  sung  or  spoken;— 
Listen  to  ihis  Indian  Legend, 
To  this  Song  of  Hiawatha ! 

IV. 

Ye  whose  hearts  are  fresh  and  simple, 
Who  have  faith  in  God  and  Nature, 
Who  believe,  that  in  all  ages 
Every  human  heart  is  human, 
That  in  even  savage  bosoms, 
There  are  longings,  yearnings,  strivings. 
For  the  good  they  comprehend  not. 
That  the  feeble  hands  and  helpless, 


liONGFELLOW, 


RHETORICAL    READER  125 

Groping  blindly  in  the  darkness, 
Touch  God's  right  hand  in  that  darkness, 
And  are  lifted  up  and  strengthened  ; — 
Listen  to  this  simple  story, 
To  this  Song  of  Hiawatha  ' 


EXERCISE  XXV. 

HIAWATHA'S  WOOING. 

I. 

At  the  doorway  of  his  wigwam 

Sat  the  ancient  Arrow-maker, 

In  the  land  of  the  DacotaKs, 

Making  arrow-heads  of  jasper, 

Arrow-heads  of  chalcedony. 

At  his  side,  in  all  her  beauty. 

Sat  the  lovely  Minnehaha, 

Sat  his  daughter,  Laughing  Water, 

Plaiting  mats  of  flags  and  rushes; 

Of  the  past  the  old  man's  thoughts  were 

And  the  maiden's  of  the  future. 


II. 

He  was  thinking,  as  he  sat  there. 
Of  the  days,  when  with  such  arrows 
He  had  struck  the  deer  and  bison, 
On  the  Muskoday,  the  meadow ; 
Shot  the  wildgoose,  flying  southward, 
On  the  wing,  the  clamorous  Wawa; 
Thinking  of  the  great  war-parties^ 
How  they  came  to  buy  his  arrows, 
Could  not  Jight  without  his  ai  rows. 
Ah,  no  more  such  noble  warriors 
Could  be  found  on  earth,  as  they  were  I 
Now  the  men  were  all  like  women, 
Only  used  their  tongues  for  weapons  I 


126  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES. 

III. 

She  was  thinking  of  a  hunter, 
From  another  tribe  and  country, 
Young  and  tall  and  very  handsome, 
Who  one  mornino^,  in  the  spring  time, 
V  Came  to  buy  her  father's  arrows. 

Sat  and  rested  in  the  wigwam, 
Lingered  long  about  the  doorway. 
Looking  back,  as  he  departed. 
She  had  heard  her  father  praise  him, 
Praise  his  courage  and  his  wisdom; 
Would  he  come  again  for  arrows 
To  the  Falls  of  Minnehaha  ? 
On  the  mat  her  hands  lay  idle, 
And  her  eyes  were  very  dreamy. 

IV. 

Through  their  thoughts  they  heard  a  footstep, 
Heard  a  rustling  in  the  branches. 
And,  with  glowing  cheek  and  forehead, 
With  the  deer  upon  his  shoulders. 
Suddenly  from  out  the  woodlands 
Hiawatha  stood  before  them. 


V. 
Straight  the  ancient  Arrow-maker 
Looked  up  gravely  from  his  labor. 
Laid  aside  th'  unfinished  arrow. 
Bade  him  enter  at  the  doorway. 
Saying,  as  he  rose  to  meet  him, — 
"  Hiawatha^  you  are  welcome  V^ 
At  the  feet  of  Laughing  Water 
Hiawatha  laid  his  burden, 
Threw  the  red  deer  from  his  shoulders; 
And  the  maiden  looked  up  at  him, 
Looked  up  from  her  niat  of  rushes, 


RHETORICAL    READER.  127 

Said  with  gentle  look  and  accent, — 
"  You  are  welcome^  Hiawatha  /" 

VI. 
Very  spacious  was  the  wigwam, 
Made  of  deer-skin  dressed  and  whitened, 
With  the  gods  of  the  Dacotahs 
Drawn  and  painted  on  its  curtains  j 
And  so  tall  the  doorway,  hardly 
Hiawatha  stooped  to  enter. 
Hardly  touched  his  eagle-feathers 
As  ho  entered  at  the  doorway. 

VII. 

Then  uprose  the  Laughing  Water, 
From  the  ground  fair  Minnehaha, 
Laid  aside  her  mat  unfinished. 
Brought  forth  food,  and  set  before  them 
Water  brought  them  from  the  brooklet, 
Gave  them  food  in  earthen  vessels, 
Gave  them  drink  in  bowls  of  bass-wood, 
Listened  while  the  guest  was  speaking, 
Listened  while  her  father  answered, 
But  not  once  her  lip  she  opened, 
Not  a  single  word  she  uttered. 

VIII. 

Yes,  as  in  a  dream,  she  listened 
To  the  words  of  Hiawatha, 
As  he  talked  of  old  Nokomis, 
Who  had  nursed  him  in  his  childhood, 
As  he  told  of  his  companions, 
Chibiabos,  the  musician. 
And  the  very  strong  man,  Kwasind, 
And  of  happiness  and  plenty 
In  the  land  of  the  Ojibways, 
In  the  pleasant  land  and  peaceful 


128  SANDXRS'     UNION    SERIES. 

IX. 

"  After  raany  years  of  warfare, 
Many  years  of  strife  and  bloodshed, 
There  is  peace  between  the  Ojibways 
And  the  tribe  of  the  Dacotahs." 
Thus  continued  Hiawatha, 
And  then  added,  speaking  slowly, — 
"  That  this  peace  may  last  for  ever, 
And  our  hands  be  clasped  more  cloeely, 
And  our  hearts  be  more  united, 
Give  me,  as  my  wife,  this  maiden, 
Minnehaha,  Laughing  Water, 
Lovelieot  of  Dacotah  women  I" 

X. 

And  the  ancient  Arrow-maker 
Paused  a  moment  ere  he  answered, 
Smoked  a  little  while  in  silence. 
Looked  at  Hiawatha  proudly. 
Fondly  looked  at  Laughing  Water, 
And  maJe  answer  very  gravely: 
*'  Yes,  i/  Minnehaha  wishes; 
Let  your  heart  stpeak,  Minnehaha  !** 

XI. 

And  the  lovely  Laughing  Water 
Seemed  more  lovely,  as  she  stood  there. 
Neither  willing  nor  reluctant. 
As  she  went  to  Hiawatha, 
Softly  took  the  seat  beside  him, 
While  she  said,  and  blushed  to  say  it,— 
**  /  wiU  follow  you  my  husband  !" 
This  was  Hiawatha's  wooing  ! 
Thus  it  was  he  won  the  daughter 
Of  the  ancient  Arrow-maker, 
In  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs! 


RHETORICAL    READER.  129 

XII. 

From  the  wigwam  he  departed, 
Leading  with  him  Laughing  Water ; 
Hand  in  hand  they  went  together, 
Through  the  woodland  and  the  meadow, 
Left  the  old  man  standing  lon^lj 
At  the  doorway  of  his  wigwam. 
Heard  the  Falls  of  Minnehaha 
Calling  to  them  from  the  distance, 
Crying  to  them  from  afar  off, — 
"  Fare  thee  well,  0  Minnehaha  !" 

XIII. 

Pleasant  was  the  journey  homeward  I 
All  the  birds  sang  loud  and  sweetly 
Songs  of  happiness  and  heart' s-ease ; 
8ang  the  blue-bird,  the  Owaissa, — 
"  Happy  are  you,  Hiawatha^ 
Having  such  a  wife  to  love  you  !" 
Sang  the  Opechee,  the  robin, — 
"  Happy  are  you,  Laughing  Watery 
Having  such  a  noble  husband!*' 
From  the  sky  the  sun  benignant 
Looked  upon  them  through  the  branches, 
Saying  to  them, — "  0  my  children^ 
Jjove  is  sunshine,  hate  is  shadow, 
Life  is  checkered  shade  and  sunshine, 
Rule  by  love,  0  Hiatcatha  !" 

XIV. 

From  the  sky  the  moon  looked  at  them, 
Filled  the  lodge  with  mystic  splendors, 
Whispered  to  them, — "  0  my  children^ 
Day  is  restless,  night  is  quiet, 
Man  imperious,  woman  feeble; 
Half  is  mine,  although  I  follow  ; 
Rule  by  patience,  Laughing   Water  !" 
5R 


130  SANDERS      UNION    SERIEH. 

XV. 

Thus  it  was  they  journeyed  homeward; 
Thus  it  was  that  Hiawatha 
To  the  lodge  of  old  Nokomis 
Brought  the  moonlight,  starlight,  firelight, 
Brought  the  sunshine  of  his  people, 
Minnehaha,  Laughing  Water, 
Handsomest  of  all  the  women 
In  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs, 
En  the  land  of  handsome  women. 


EXERCISE  XXVI. 

Jahes  Usher,  the  celebrated  Archbishop  of  Armagh,  was  bom  in  Dabliii, 
in  1581.  He  died  in  1656.  His  chief  production,  as  a  writer,  is  his  great 
chronological  work,  entitled  "  Annals."  The  chronological  system  developed 
in  this  work,  is  that  which  has  been  generally  followed  even  down  to  the 
present  time. 

*  Anecdote  is  made  up  of  three  Greek  words  (An,  noty  Ec,  out,  and 
Dote,  given),  meaning  together  not  given  out,  that  is,  something  not  yet 
formally  published  or  edited.  This  was  the  original  sense  of  the  word. 
It  is,  therefore,  properly  applied  to  any  brief  story  or  incident;  any 
minute  passage  of  private  history. 

THE  ELEVENTH  COMMANDMENT :— An  Anecdotb.i 

1.  The  eminent  Archbishop  Usher,  being  once  on  a  visit  in 
•Scotland,  heard  a  great  deal  of  the  piety  and  devotion  of  the 
famous  Mr.  Samuel  Rutherford,  who,  he  understood,  spent 
whole  nights  in  prayer,  especially  before  the  Sabbath.  The 
bishop  wished  much  to  witness  such  extraordinary  down -pouring 
of  the  Spirit;  but  was  utterly  at  a  loss  how  to  accon.plish  his 
design.  At  length,  it  came  into  his  mind  to  dress  himself  like 
a  pauj^er;  and  on  a  Saturday  evening,  when  turning  dark,  he 
called  at  Mr.  Rutherford's  house,  and  asked  if  he  could  get 
quarters  for  the  night,  since  he  could  go  to  no  other  house  at 
so  late  an  hour  for  th^t  purpose.     Mr.  Rutherford  consented  to 


RHETORICAL    READER.  181 

give  the  pr.or  man  a  bed  for  a  night,  and  desired  him  to  sit 
down  in  the  kitchen,  which  he  did  cheerfully. 

2.  Mrs.  Rutherford,  according  to  custom  on  Saturday  evening, 
that  her  servants  might  be  prepared  for  the  Sabbath,  called  them 
together,  and  examined  them.  In  the  course  of  examination 
that  e'sning,  she  asked  the  stranger  how  many  commandments 
there  were.  To  which  he  answered  eleven.  Upon  receiving 
this  answer,  she  replied, — "What  a  shame  is  it  for  you !  a  man 
with  gray  hairs,  living  in  a  Christian  country,  not  to  know  how 
many  commandments  there  are  !  There  is  -  not  a  child  of  sii 
years  old  in  this  parish  but  could  answer  this  question  properly." 
She  troubled  the  poor  man  no  more,  thinking  him  so  very  igno- 
rant; but  lamented  his  condition  to  her  servants;  and,  after 
giving  him  some  supper,  desired  a  servant  to  show  him  up 
stairs  to  a  bed  in  a  garret. 

3.  This  was  the  very  situation  in  which  he  desired  to  be 
placed,  that  he  might  hear  Mr.  Rutherford  at  his  secret  devo- 
tion. However,  he  was  disappointed ;  for  that  night  the  good 
man  went  to  bed,  but  did  not  fall  asleep  for  some  hours.  The 
stranger  did  not  go  to  bed,  b.ut  sat  listening,  always  hoping  to 
hear  Mr.  Rutherford  at  prayer ;  and,  at  length,  concluding  that 
all  the  family  were  asleep,  the  bishop  thought,  'if  he  had  been 
disappointed  of  hearing  another  oflfering  up  his  desires  to  God 
kt  the  throne  of  grace,  he  would  embrace  the  opportunity  Aim- 
self;  and  poured  out  his  heart  to  God  with  so  much  liberty  and 
enlargement,  that  Mr.  Rutherford,  immediately  below,  over- 
heard, and  getting  up,  put  on  his  clothes. 

4.  Should  this  have  awakened  Mrs.  Rutherford,  she  could 
have  suspected  nothing  of  his  design,  seeing  he  commonly  rose 
every  day  at  three  o'clock  in  the  morning;  and,  if  she  could 
have  heard  one  at  prayer  afterwards,  she  would  naturally  have 
concluded  it  was  her  husband.  Mr.  Rutherford  went  up  stairs, 
and  stDod  waiting  at  the  garret  door  till  the  bishop  concluded 
his  devotion;  upon  which  he  knocked  gently  at  the  door,  and 
the  other  opened  it  with  surprise,  thinking  none  were  witness 
to  his  devotion.  ^Ir.  Rutherford  took  him  by  the  hand  saying,— 
"  Sir,  T  am  j^orsuaded  you  can  be  none  other  than  Archbishop 


132  SANDERS'     UNION     SERIES- 

rislier;  Jind  you  tnust  certainly  preach  for  me  to-da}  '  for  it 
was  DOW  Sabbath  morning.  The  bishop  confessed  who  ie  was  5 
and,  after  telHng  Mr.  Eutherford  what  induced  him  to  take 
such  a  step,  said  he  would  preach  for  him,  on  conditica  he 
would  not  discover  who  he  was.  Happy  union  of  souls,  al- 
though of  different  persuasions !  yet  not  marvelous.  God  makes 
but  two  distinctions  among  mankind — the  righteous  and  the 
wicked. 

5.  The  bishop,  being  provided  by  Mr.  Rutherford  with  a 
suit  of  his  own  clolhes,  went  out  early  in  the  morning  into  the 
fields ;  whither,  also,  Mr.  Rutherford  following,  soon  after  re- 
turned, bringing  in  the  bishop  as  a  strange  minister  passing  by, 
who  had  promised  to  preach  for  him.  Mrs.  Rutherford  found 
that  the  poor  man  had  gone  away  before  any  of  the  family  were 
out  of  bed.  After  domestic  worship,  and  breakfast,  the  family- 
went  to  the  kirk,  and  the  bishop  had  for  his  text  Joiin  xiii.  34 — 
"^  new  commandment  I -give  unto  i/ou,  that  ye  love  one  another;^' 
a  suitable  subject  for  the  occasion.  In  the  course  of  this  sermon, 
he  observed  that  this  might  be  reckoned  the  eleventh  com- 
mandment :  upon  whicli  Mrs.  Rutherford  said  to  herself, — 
"TViac  ?s  the  answer  the  jfoor  man  gave  me  last  night;"  and 
looking  up  to  the  pulpit,  said, — "i«  cannot  he  possible  this  is  he!" 
After  public  worship  the  strange  minister  and  Mr.  Rutherford 
spent  the  evening  in  mutual  satisfaction ;  and,  early  on  Monday 
morning,  the  former  went  away  in -the  dress  he  came  in,  and  was 
not  discovered. 

6.  When  Mrs.  Rutherford  came  to  know  for  certain  that  the 
Btrange  preacher  was  none  other  than  the  poor  man  whom  she 
had  kindly  taken  in,  on  the  night  before,  she  must  have  had  a 
new  and  singularly  impressive  illustration  of  the  famous  toxt  in 
Hebrews  (xiii.  2), — "Be  not  forgetful  to  entertain  strangers  :  for 
thereby  some  have  entertained  angels  unawares  "  Hospitality 
is  a  high  CI  ristian  virtue,  and  never  fails  of  its  ju«it  rewar>i 


RHETORICAL    REALER.  138 


EXERCISE  XXVIl. 

Charity,  in  the  New  Testament,  never  means  mere  alms,  or  almt- 
fivinff,  which  is  the  common  acceptation  of  fhe  word  in  these  days.  It 
means  Love  ;  of  which  charity/,  in  the  sense  of  giving  aid  or  relief  to  the 
poor,  is  merely  one  manifestation.  This  being  understood,  the  follow- 
ing beautiful  chapter  will  serve,  not  only  as  an  excellent  exercise  in 
pealing,  but,  also,  as  an  admirable  sequel  to  the  preceding  anecdote 
of  Archbishop  Usher. 

CHARITY. 

1  COR.  CHAP.  zm. 

WITHO'JT    CHARITY    ALL    GIFTS    ARE    AS    NOTHING. 

1.  Though  I  speak  with  the  tongues  of  men  and  of  angels, 
and  have  not  charity,  I  am  become  as  sounding  brass,  or  a  tink- 
ling cymbal.  And,  though  I  have  the  gift  of  prophecy,  and 
understand  all  mysteries,  and  all  knowledge;  and,  though  I  have 
all  faith,  so  that  I  could  remove  mountains,  and  have  not  charity, 
I  am  nothing.  And,  though  I  bestow  all  my  goods  to  feed  the 
poor,  and,  though  I  give  my  body  to  be  burned,  and  have  not 
charity,  it  profiteth  me  nothing.  • 

2.  Charity  suflfereth  long,  and  is  kind;  charity  envieth  not*, 
charity  vaunteth  not  itself,  is  not  puffed  up,  doth  not  behave 
itself  unseemly,  seeketh  not  her  own,  is  not  easily  provoked 
thinketh  no  evil;  rejoiceth  not  in  iniquity,  but  rejoiceth  in  the 
truth ;  beareth  all  things,  believeth  all  things,  hopeth  all  things, 
endure th  all  things. 

3.  Charity  never  faileth  :  but  whether  there  be  prophecies, 
chey  shall  fail ;  whether  there  be  tongues,  they  shall  cease ; 
whether  there  be  knowledge,  it  shall  vanish  away.  For  we  know 
in  part,  and  we  prophesy  in  part.  But  when  that  which  is  per- 
fect is  come,  then  that  which  is  in  part  shall  be  done  away. 

4.  When  I  was  a  child,  I  spake  as  a  child,  I  understood  as  a 
jhild,  I  thought  as  a  child  :  but  when  I  became  a  man,  I  put 
away  childish  things.  For  now  we  see  through  a  glass,  darkly; 
but  then  face  to  face ;  now  I  know  in  part ;  but  then  shall  T 
know  even  as  also  I  am  known.  And  now  abideth  faith,  hope, 
charity,  thsse  three  ;  but  the  greatest  of  these  is  charity 


134  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES. 

EXERCISE  XXVIII. 
SKETCH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


SAMUEL   J0HN80W' 


1  Sliakspeare  is.  above  all  writers,  at  least  above  all  modern 
writers,  the  poet  of  nature ;  the  poet  that  holds  up  to  his  readers 
a  faithful  mirror  of  manners  and  of  life.  His  characters  arc 
rot  modified  by  the  customs  of  particular  places,  uupracticed  bjr 
the  rest  of  the  world ;  by  the  peculiarities  of  studies  or  profes- 
sions, which  can  operate  but  upon  small  numbers ;  or  by  the 
accidents  of  transient  fashions  or  temporary  opinions ;  they  are 
the  genuine  progeny  of  common  humanity,  such  as  the  world 
will  always  supply,  and  observation  will  always  find.  His  per- 
sons act  and  speak  by  the  influence  of  those  general  passions 
and  principles  by  which  all  minds  are  agitated,  and  the  whole 
system  of  life  is  continued  in  motion.  In  the  writings  of  other 
poets,  a  character  is  too  often  an  individual ;  in  those  of  Shak- 
speare,  it  is  commonly  a  species.  It  is  from  this  wide  extension 
of  design,  that  so  much  instruction  is  derived.  It  is  this  which 
fills  the  plays  of  Shakspeare  with  practical  axioms  and  domestic 
wisdom.  It  was  said  of  Euripides,f  that  every  verse  wa&  a  pre- 
jept;  and  it  may  be  said  of  Shakspeare,  that  from  his  works 
maybe  collected  a  system' of  civil  and  economical  prudence. 
Yet  his  real  power  is  not  shown  in  the  splendor  of  particular 
passages,  but  by  the  progress  of  his  fable,  and  the  tenor  of  his 
dialogue. 

2.  It  will  not  easily  be  imagined  how  much  Shakspeare  excels 
in  acconmiodating  his  sentiments  to  real  life,  but  by  comparing 
him  with  other  authors.  It  was  observed  of  the  ancient  school? 
of  declamation,  that  the  more  diligently  they  were  frequented, 
the  moie  was  the  student  disqualified  for  the  world,  because  he 
found  nothing  there  which  he  should  ever  meet  in  any  other 
place.     The  same  remark  may  be  applied  to  every  stage  but 

*  For  a  sketch  of  Johnson,  see  Exercise  CXVI. 

f  A  celebrated  Greek  dramatist  who  flourished  about  the  yeai 
460  B.C. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  13d 

that  of  Shakspeare.  The  theater,  when  it  is  under  any  other 
direction,  is  peopled  by  such  characters  as  were  never  seen,  con- 
versing in  a  language  which  was  never  heard,  upon  topics  which 
will  never  arise  in  the  commerce  of  mankind.  But  the  dialogue 
of  this  author  is  often  so  evidently  determined  by  the  incident 
which  produces  it,  and  is  pursued  with  so  much  ease  and  sim- 
plicity, that  it  seems  scarcely  to  claim  the  merit  of  fiction,  but 
to  ha\e  been  gleaned  by  diligent  selection  out  of  common  con- 
versation, and  common  occurrences. 

3.  Upon  every  other  stage  the  universal  agent  is  love,  by 
whose  power  all  good  and  evil  is  distributed,  and  every  action 
quickened  or  retarded.  To  bring  a  lover,  a  lady,  and  a  rival 
into  the  fable  j  to  entangle  them  in  contradictory  obligations, 
perplex  them  with  oppositions  of  interest,  and  harass  them  with 
violence  of  desires  inconsistent  with  each  other ;  to  make  them 
meet  in  rapture,  and  part  in  agony ;  to  fill  their  mouths  with 
hyperbolical  joy  and  outrageous  sorrow;  to  distress  them  as 
nothing  human  ever  was  distressed ;  to  deliver  them  as  nothing 
human  ever  was  delivered,  is  the  business  of  a  modern  dra- 
matist. 

4.  For  this,  probability  is  violated,  life  is  misrepresented,  and 
language  is  depraved.  But  love  is  only  one  of  many  passions; 
and  as  it  has  no  great  influence  upon  the  sum  of  life,  it  has  little 
operation  in  the  drama  of  a  poet,  who  caught  his  ideas  from  the 
living  world,  and  exhibited  only  what  he  saw  before  him.  He 
knew  that  any  other  passion,  as  it  was  regular  or  exorbitant, 
was  a  cause  of  happiness  or  calamity.  Characters  thus  ample 
and  general  were  not  easily  discriminated  and  preserved,  yet, 
perhaps,  no  poet  ever  kept  his  personages  more  distinct  from 
each  other.  I  will  not  say  with  Pope,  that  every  speech  may 
be  assigned  to  the  proper  speaker,  because  many  speeches  there 
are,  which  have  nothing  characteristical ;  but,  perhaps,  though 
some  may  be  equally  adapted  to  every  person,  it  will  be  difficult 
to  find  that  any  can  be  properly  transferred  from  the  present 
p'jssessor  to  another  claimant.  The  choice  is  right  when  there 
is  reason  for  choice. 

5    Other  dramatists  .;an  only  gain  attention  by  hyperbolical 


136  SANDERS'    UNION     SERIES. 

or  aggravated  characters,  by  fabulous  and  unexamp.ed  excel- 
lence or  depravity,  as  the  writers  of  barbarous  romances  m- 
vigorated  the  reader  by  a  giant  and  a  dwarf;  and  he  that  should 
form  his  expectations  of  human  affairs  from  the  play  or  from 
the  tale,  would  be  equally  deceived.  Shakspeare  has  no  heroes ; 
his  scenes  are  occupied  only  by  men,  who  act  and  speak  as  the 
reader  thinks  that  he  should  himself  have  spoken  or  acted  on 
the  same  occ  \sion  j  even  where  the  agency  is  supernatural,  the 
dialogue  is  level  with  life. 

6.  Other  writers  disguise  the  most  natural  passions  and  most 
frequent  incidents ;  so  that  he  who  contemplates  them  in  the 
bDok,  will  not  know  them  in  the  world  ;  Shakspeare  approximates 
the  reuiuw,  <tnd  familiarizes  the  wonderful;  the  event  which  he 
represents,  will  not  happen,  but,  if  it  were  possible,  its  effects 
would  probably  be  such  as  he  has  assigned ;  and  it  may  be  said, 
♦^hat  he  has  not  only  shown  human  nature  as  it  acts  in  real 
exigencies,  but  as  it  would  be  found  in  trials  to  which  it  cannot 
be  exposed. 

7.  This,  therefore,  is  the  praise  of  Shakspeare,  that  his  drama 
is  the  mirror  of  life;  that  he  who  has  mazed  his  imagination,  in 
following  the  phantoms  which  other  writers  raise  up  before  him. 
may  here  be  cured  of  his  delirious  ecstacies,  by  reading  human 
sentiments  in  human  language,  by  scenes  from  which  a  hermit 
may  estimate  the  transactions  of  the  world,  and  a  confessor  pre- 
dict the  progress  of  the  passiou.j. 

8.  Shakspeare's  plays  are  not,  in  the  rigorous  and  critical 
gense,  either  tragedies  or  comedies,  but  compositions  of  a  distinct 
kind ;  exhibiting  the  real  state  of  sublunary  nature  which  par- 
takes of  good  and  evil,  joy  and  sorrow,  mingled  with  endlc«s 
variety  of  proportion  and  innumerable  modes  of  combiuation; 
and  expressing  the  course  of  the  world,  in  which  the  loss  of  one 
is  the  gain  of  another ;  in  which,  at  the  same  time,  the  reveler 
is  hasting  to  his  wine,  and  the  mourner  burying  his  friend ;  in 
which  the  malignity  of  one  is  sometimes  defeated  by  the  frolic 
of  another;  and  many  mischiefs  and  many  benefits  are  done  and 
hindered  without  design. 

9.  The  force  of  his  comic  scenes  has  suffered  little  diminiition 


RHETORICAL    READER.  137 

from  the  changes  made  by  a  century  and  a  half,  in  manners  or 
in  words.  As  his  personages  act  upon  principles  arising  from 
genuine  passion,  very  little  modified  by  particular  forms,  their 
pleasures  and  vexations  are  communicable  to  all  times  and  to  all 
places;  they  are  natural,  and,  therefore,  durable :  the  ad\enti- 
tious  peculiarities  of  personal  habits  are  only  superficial  dyes^ 
bright  and  pleasing  for  a  little  while,  yet  soon  fading  to  a  dim 
tinet,  without  any  remains  of  former  luster  j  but  the  discrimi- 
I  ations  of  true  passion  are  the  colors  of  nature :  they  pervade 
the  whole  mass,  and  can  only  perish  with  the  body  that  exhibits 
them. 

10.  The  accidental  compositions  of  heterogeneous*  modes  are 
dissolved  by  the  chance  which  combined  them;  but  the  uniform 
simplicity  of  primitive  qualities  neither  admits  increase,  noi 
sufi"ers  decay.  The  sand  heaped  by  one  flood  is  scattered  by 
another,  but  the  rock  always  continues  in  its  place.  The  stream 
of  time,  which  is  continually  washing  the  dissoluble  fabrics  of 
Dther  poets,  passes  without  injury  by  the  adamant  of  Shakspeare. 

11.  If  there  be,  what  I  believe  there  is,  in  every  nation,  a 
style  which  never  becomes  obsolete,  a  certain  mode  of  phrase- 
ology so  consonant  and  congenial  to  the  analogy  and  principles 
of  its  respective  language,  as  to  remain  settled  and  unaltered, 
this  style  is  probably  to  be  sought  in  the  common  intercourse  of 
life,  among  those  who  speak  only  to  be  understood,  without  am- 
bition  of  elegance.  The  polite  are  always  catching  modish 
innovations,  and  the  learned  depart  from  established  forms  of 
speech,  in  hope  of  finding  or  making  better ;  those  who  wish 
for  distinction,  forsake  the  vulgar,  when  the  vulgar  is  right; 
but  there  is  a  conversation  above  grossness,  and  below  refine- 
ment, where  propriety  resides,  and  where  this  poet  seems  to 
have  gathered  his  comic  dialogue.  He  is,  therefore,  more  ^^gree- 
able  to  the  ears  of  the  present  age  than  any  other  author  equally 
remote,  and,  among  his  other  excellencies,  deserves  to  be  studied, 
as  one  cf  the  original  masters  of  our  language. 

*  For  the  analysis  of  this  word,  see  Sanders  &  McEUigott's  AnalysL 
«f  English  Words,  page  210 


138  SANDERS       UNION     SERIES. 


EXERCISE  XXIX. 


WiLLrAM  Hazlitt  was  born  in  Maidstone,  England,  in  1778,  and  died  in 
London,  in  18.30.  Few  English  writers  have  been  more  remarkable  for  bold, 
vigorous,  and  discriminating  thought,  than  Hazlitt,  The  following  is  from 
hii  "  Characters  of  Shakspeare's  Plays." 


CHARACTER  OF  HAMLET. 

WILUAH  BAZIJTT. 

1.  Hamlet  is  a  name :  his  speeches  and  sayings  but  the  idle 
coinage  of  the  poet's  brain.  But  are  they  not  reaZ  I*  They  are 
as  real  as  our  own  thoughts.  Their  reality  is  in  the  reader's 
mind.  It  is  we  who  are  Hamlet.  This  play  is  a  prophetic  truth, 
which  is  above  that  of  history.  Whoever  has  become  thought- 
ful and  melancholy  through  his  own  mishaps  or  those  of  others ; 
whoever  has  borne  about  with  him  the  clouded  brow  of  reflection, 
and  thought  himself  "  too  much  i'  th'  sun ;"  whoever  has  seen 
the  golden  lamp  of  day  dimmed  by  envious  mists  rising  in  his 
own  breast,  and  could  find  in  the  world  before  him  only  a  dull 
blank,  with  nothing  left  remarkable  in  it  j  whoever  has  known 
"  the  pangs  of  despised  love,  the  insolence  of  office,  or  the  spurns 
which  patient  merit  of  the  unworthy  takes ;"  he  who  has  felt 
his  mind  sink  within  him,  and  sadness  cling  to  his  heart  like  a 
malady ;  who  has  had  his  hopes  blighted  and  his  youth  stag- 
gered by  the  apparitions  of  strange  things ;  who  cannot  be  well 
at  ease,  while  he  sees  evil  hovering  near  him  like  a  specter ; 
whose  powers  of  action  have  been  eaten  up  by  thought;  he  to 
whom  the  universe  seems  infinite,  and  himself  nothing ;  whose 
bitterness  of  soul  makea  him  careless  of  consequences.  This  ia 
the  tiue  Hamlet. 

2  We  have  been  so  used  to  this  tragedy,  that  we  hardly 
know  how  to  criticise  it,  any  more  than  we  should  know  how  to 
describe  our  own  faces.  But  we  must  make  such  observations 
as  we  can.  It  is  the  one  of  Shakspeare's  plays,  that  we  think 
of  oftenest,  because  it  abounds  most  in  striking  reflections  on 
human  life,  and  because  the  distresses  of  Hamlet  are  transferred, 
by  the  turn  of  his  mind,  to  the  general  account  of  humanity 


RHETORICAL    READER.  139 

Whatever  happens  to  him,  we  apply  to  ourselves;  because  he 
applies  it  so  himself,  as  a  means  of  general  reasoning. 

3.  He  is  a  great  moralizer,  and  what  makes  him  worth  at- 
tending to,  is,  that  he  moralizes  on  his  own  feelings  and  expe- 
rience. He  is  not  a  commonplace  pedant.  If  Lear  shows  the 
greatest  depth  of  passion,  Hamlet  is  the  most  remarkable  for 
the  ingenuity,  originality,  and  unstudied  development  of  char- 
acter. There  is  no  attempt  to  force  an  interest :  every  thing  is 
left  for  time  and  circumstances  to  unfold.  The  attention  is 
excited  without  effort;  the  incidents  succeed  each  other  as 
matters  of  course ;  the  characters  think,  and  speak,  and  act, 
just  as  they  might  do,  if  left  entirely  to  themselves.  There  is 
10  set  purpose,  no  straining  at  a  point. 

4.  The  observations  are  suggested  by  the  passing  scene — the 
gusts  of  passion  come  and  go  like  sounds  of  music  borne  on  the 
wind.  The  whole  play  is  an  exact  transcript  of  what  might  be 
supposed  to  have  taken  place  at  the  court  of  Denmark,  at  the 
remote  period  of  time  fixed  upon,  before  the  modern  refinements 
in  morals  and  manners  were  heard  of.  It  would  have  been 
interesting  enough  to  have  been  admitted,  as  a  by-stander  in 
such  a  scene,  at  such  a  time,  to  have  heard  and  seen  something 
of  what  was  going  on. 

5.  But  here  we  are  more  than  spectators.  We  have  not  only 
"  the  outward  pageants  and  the  signs  of  grief,"  but  "  we  have 
that  within  which  passes  show."  We  read  the  thoughts  of  the 
heart,  we  catch  the  passions  living  as  they  rise.  Other  dramatic 
writers  give  us  very  fine  versions  and  paraphrases  of  nature; 
but  Shakspeare,  together  with  his  own  comment,  gives  us  the 
original  text,  that  we  may  judge  for  ourselves.  This  is  a  great 
advantage. 

6.  The  character  of  Hamlet  is  itself  a  pure  effusion  of  genius. 
It  is  not  a  character  marked  by  strength  of  will,  or  even  of 
passion,  but  by  refinement  of  thought  and  sentimen..  Hamlet 
Is  as  little  of  the  hero  as  man  well  can  be :  but  he  is  a  young 
and  princely  novice,  full  of  high  enthusiasm  and  quick  sensi' 
bility, — the  sport  of  circumstances,  questioning  with  fortune, 


140  SANDERS'     UNION    SERIES. 

and  refining  on  his  own  feelings ;   and  forced  from  the  natural 
bias  of  his  disposition  bj  the  strangeness  of  his  situation 


EXERCISE  XXX. 

The  Play  ot  Hamlet  is  founded  upon  a  story  derived,  it  is  saidy  by 
Shakspeare,  from  Saxo  Grammaticus,  a  Danish  historian,  who  di«d  in 
the  year  1204.  Hamlet's  father,  the  king  of  Denmark,  while  asleep  in 
his  orchard,  is  murdered  by  his  own  brother;  the  queen,  Hamlet's 
mother,  being  privy  to  it.  The  story  is  given  out,  that  he  came  to  his 
death  by  the  sting  of  a  serpent.  But  the  ghost  of  the  murdered  king 
appearing  to  Hamlet,  reveals  the  terrible  secret,  and  summons  his  son 
to  the  task  of  vengeance. 

SCENE  FROM  HAMLET. 

SHAKSPEABl. 

Elsinore.  Room  of  State  in  the  Castle.  The  King,  (Ham- 
let's  uncle,)  The  Queen,  (his  mother,)  Hamlet,  Polonius, 
(the  Lord  Chamberlain,)  and  others. 

King.  Though  yet  of  Hamlet  our  dear  brother's  death 
The  memory  be  green ;  and  that  it  us  befitted 
To  bear  our  hearts  in  grief,  and  our  whole  kingdom 
To  be  contracted  in  one  brow  of  woej 
Yet  so  far  bath  discretion  fought  with  nature, 
That  we  with  wisest  sorrow  think  on  him. 
Together  with  remembrance  of  ourselves. 
Therefore,  our  sometime  sister,  now  our  queen. 
The  imperial  jointress  of  this  warlike  state. 
Have  we,  as  'twere,  with  a  defeated  joy,— • 
Taken  to  wife;  nor  have  we  herein  barred 
Your  better  wisdoms,  which  have  freely  gone 
With  this  affair  along.     For  all,  our  thanks ! 
But  now,  my  cousin  Hamlet,  and  my  son, — 

Ham.  A  little  more  than  Mn^  and  less  than  kind. 

King    How  is  it  that  the  clouds  still  hang  on  you  ? 


RHETORICAL     READER.  141 

ham.  Not  so,  my  lord,  I  am  too  much  i'  the  sun. 

Queen.  Good  Hamlet,  cast  thy  nighted  color  off, 
And  let  thine  eye  look  like  a  friend  on  Denmark. 
Do  not,  forever,  with  thy  vailed  lids. 
Seek  for  thy  noble  father  in  the  dust. 
Thou  know'st  'tis  common ;  all  that  live  must  die, 
l^assing  through  nature  to  eternity. 

Ham.   Ay,  madam,  it  is  common. 

Queen.  If  it  be, 

Why  seems  it  so  particular  with  thee? 

Ham.   Seems,  madam,  nay,  it  is  ;  I  know  not  seemi* 
*Tis  not  alone  my  inky  cloak,  good  mother, 
Nor  customary  suits  of  solemn  black, 
Nor  windy  suspiration  of  forced  breath, 
No,  nor  the  fruitful  river  in  the  eye. 
Nor  the  dejected  'havior  of  the  visage, 
Together  with  the  modes,  forms,  shows  of  grief, 
That  can  denote  me  truly.     These,  indeed,  seem ; 
For  they  are  actions  that  a  man  might  plai/; 
But  I  have  that  within  which  passeth  show; 
These  but  the  trappings  and  the  suits  of  woe. 

King.  'Tis  sweet  and  commendable  in  your  nature,  Han 
To  give  these  mourning  duties  to  your  father. 
But  you  must  know,  i/our  father  lost  a  father; 
That  father  lost,  lost  his  ;  and  the  survivor  bound 
In  filial  obligation,  for  some  term, 
To  do  obsequious  sorrow.     But  to  persevere 
In  obstinate  condolement,  is  a  course 
Of  impious  stubborness  ;  His  unmanly  grief: 
It  shows  a  will  most  incorrect  to  Heaven, 
A  heart  unfortified,  or  mind  impatient; 
An  understanding  simple  and  unschooled. 
For  what  we  know  must  be,  and  is  as  common 
As  any  the  most  vulgar  thing  to  sense. 
Why  should  we,  in  our  peevish  opposition, 
Take  it  to  heart?     Fie  !  'tis  a  fault  to  Heavea, 
A  fault  against  the  dead  a  fault  to  nature, 


1^2  SANDERS'     UNION    SERIES. 

To  reason  most  absurd ;  whose  common  tlume 

Is  death  of  fathers,  and  who  still  hath  cried, 

From  the  first  corse,  till  he  that  died  to-day, — 

This  must  he  so!     We  praj  you  throw  to  oarth 

This  unprevailing  woe ;  and  think  of  us 

As  of  a  father.     For  let  the  world  take  note, 

You  are  the  most  immediate  to  our  throne  j 

And  with  no  less  nobility  of  love. 

Than  that  which  dearest  father  bears  his  son, 

Do  T  impart  toward  you.  lExsuni  aU  except  Hamlei 

Ham.  0,  that  this  too,  too  solid  flesh  would  melt, 
Thaw,  and  resolve  itself  into  a  dew ! 
Or  that  the  Everlasting  had  not  fixed 
His  canon  'gainst  self-slaughter.     0  Grod  !  O  God  I 
How  weary,  stale,  flat,  and  unprofitable 
Seem  to  me  all  the  uses  of  this  world  I 
Fie  on't !  0  fie !  'tis  an  unweeded  garden 
That  grows  to  seed ;  things  rank,  and  gross  in  nature, 
Possess  it  merely.     That  it  should  come  to  this ! 
But  two  months  dead  ! — nay,  not  so  much,  not  two : 
So  excellent  a  king ;  that  was,  to  this, 
Hyperion  *  to  a  satyr ;  so  loving  to  my  mother. 
That  he  might  not  beteem  the  winds  of  heaven 
Visit  her  face  too  roughly.     Heaven  and  earth  I 
Must  I  remember  ? 

Let  me  not  think  on't ; — Frailty,  thy  name  is  woman  ! — 
A  little  month ;  or  ere  those  shoes  were  old, 
With  which  she  followed  my  poor  father's  body, 
Like  Niobe,f  all  tears ; — why  she,  even  she, — 
0  heaven  !  a  beast  that  wants  discourse  of  reason. 
Would  have  mourned  longer, — married  with  my  uncle, 
My  father's  brother;  but  no  more  like  my  father, 
Than  I  to  Hercules.     Within  a  month, — 

*  Hype'rion  is  hut  another  name  for  Apollo,  who  was  distinguished 
fcr  his  beauty  ;  a  sd^  tyr  was  a  sort  of  demi-god  monstrous  in  deformity. 

f  NV  0  be,  daughter  of  an  ancient  king  of  Lydia,  ^•eing  deprived  o' 
her  children,  is  said  to  have  wept  herself  to  stone  ! 


RHETORICAL    READER.  143 

Ere  the  salt  3f  most  unrighteous  tears 

Had  left  the  flushing  in  her  galled  eyes, 

She  married. 

It  in  not,  nor  it  can  not  come  to,  good ; 

But  break,  my  heart ;  for  I  must  h  old  my  tongue ! 

fiJTiter  Horatio  (a  friend  to  Hamlet,)  Bernardo  and  Mae 

CELLUS  (officers.) 

Hor.  Hail  to  your  lordship  ! 

Ham.  I  am  glad  to  see  you  wtll : 

Horatio, — or  I  do  forget  myself. 

Hor.  The  same,  my  lord,  and  your  poor  servant  ever 

Jffam.  But  what  is  your  affair  in  Elsinore  ? 

Hor.  My  lord,  I  came  to  see  your  father's  funeral. 

Ham.  I  pray  ihee,  do  not  mock  me,  fellow-student; 
I  think  it  was  to  see  my  mother's  wedding. 

Hor.  Indeed,  my  lord,  it  followed  hard  upon. 

Ham.  Thrift,  thrift,  Horatio !  the  funeral  baked  meats 
Did  coldly  furnish  forth  the  marriage  tables. 
Would  I  had  met  my  dearest  foe  in  Heaven 
Or  ever  I  had  seen  that  day,  Horatio ! 
My  father, — methinks  I  see  my  father. 

Hor.  0,  where, 

Jlylord? 

Ham.       In  my  mind's  eye,  Horatio. 

Hor.  I  saw  him  once ;  he  was  a  goodly  king. 

Ham.  He  was  a  man,  take  him  for  all  in  all, 
L  shall  not  look  upon  his  like  again. 

Hor    My  lord,  I  think  I  saw  him  yesternight. 

Ham.  Saw  !  who  ? 

Hor.  My  lord,  the  king,  your  father ! 

Ham.  The  king,  my  fathei 

Hor.  Season  your  admiration  for  a  while, 
With  an  attent  ear ;  till  I  may  deliver, 
Upon  the  witness  of  these  gentlemen, 
This  marvel  to  you. 

Ham.  For  Grod's  love,  let  me  hear 


144  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES. 

Hor.  Two  nights  together  had  these  gentlemen, 
Marcellus  and  Bernardo,  on  their  watch, 
In  the  dead  waste  and  middle  of  the  night, 
Been  thus  encountered :  A  figure  like  your  father, 
Armed  at  all  points,  exactly  cap-^-pie, 
Appears  before  them,  and  with  solemn  march 
Goes  slow  and  stately  by  them.     Thrice  he  walked, 
By  their  oppressed  and  fear-surprised  eyes, 
W^ithin  his  truncheon's  length ;  whilst  they,  distilled 
Almost  to  jelly  with  the  act  of  fear, 
Stand  dumb,  and  speak  not  to  him.     This  to  me, 
In  dreadful  secrecy,  impart  they  did ; 
And  I  with  them  the  third  night  kept  the  watch ; 
Where,  as  they  had  delivered,  both  in  time, 
Form  of  the  thing,  each  word  made  true  and  good, 
The  apparition  comes.     I  knew  your  father ; 
These  hands  are  not  more  like. 

Ham.  But  where  was  this? 

Hor.  My  lord,  upon  the  platform  where  we  watched. 

Ham.  Did  you  not  speak  to  it  ? 

Hor.  My  lord,  I  did. 

But  answer  made  it  none ;  yet  once,  methought, 
It  lifted  up  its  head,  and  did  address 
Itself  to  motion,  like  as  it  would  speak ; 
But  even  then,  the  morning  cock  crew  loud ; 
And  at  the  sound  it  shrunk  in  haste  away, 
And  vanished  from  our  sight. 

Ham.  'Tis  very  strange. 

Hor.  As  I  do  live,  my  honored  lord,  'tis  true ;     , 
And  we  did  think  it  writ  down  in  our  duty, 
To  let  you  know  of  it. 

Ham.  Indeed,  indeed,  sirs,  but  this  troubles  me. 
Gold  you  the  watch  to-night  ? 

All.  "We  do,  my  lord. 

Ham.  I  will  watch  to-night  j 
Perchance  'twill  walk  again. 

Hor.  I  warrant  you  it  will. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  115 

Ham.  Tf  it  assume  my  noble  father's  person, 
I'll  speak  to  it,  though  hell  itsolf  should  gape, 
And  bid  me  bold  my  peace.     I  pray  you  all, 
If  you  have  hitherto  concealed  this  sight, 
Let  it  be  tenable  in  your  silence  still ; 
And,  whatsoever  else  shall  hap  to-night, 
Grive  it  an  understanding,  but  no  tongue ; 
I  will  requite  your  loves.     So  fare  you  well. 
Upon  the  platform,  'twixt  eleven  and  twelve, 
I'll  visit  you. 

AU.  Our  duty  to  your  honor. 

Ham.   Your  loves,  as  mine  to  you.     Farewell. 

[^Exeunt  Horatio,  Marcellus,  and  Bernardo. 
My  father's  spirit  in  arms !  all  is  not  well ; 
I  doubt  some  foul  play.     Would  the  night  were  come  I 
Till  then,  sit  still,  my  soul.     Foul  deeds  will  rise, 
Though  all  the  earth  o'erwhelm  them,  to  men's  eyes 


EXERCISE  XXXI. 

SCENE  FROM  HAMLET  (continued). 

Hamlet,  Horatio,  and  Marcellus. 
ffam.  The  air  bites  shrewdly  j  it  is  very  cold. 
Hbr.  It  is  a  nipping  and  an  eager  air. 
Ham.  What  hour  now  ? 

Hor.  I  think  it  lacks  of  twelve. 

Mar.  JSo;  it  is  struck. 

Hor.  Indeed  ?     I  heard  it  not ;  it  then  draws  near  the  season, 
(VTierein  this  spirit  held  his  wont  to  walk. 

\_A  Jlourish  of  trumpets,  and  ordnance  shot  off  within. 
What  does  this  mean,  my  lord  1 

Ham.  The  king  doth  wake  to-night,  and  takes  his  rouse, 
Keeps  wassail,  and  the  swaggering  upspring  reels ; 
And,  as  he  drains  his  draughts  of  Rhenish  down, 
7  6  R 


146  SANDERS'     UNION    SERIES. 

The  kettle-drum  and  truiHpet  thus  bray  out 
'Hie  triumpli  of  his  pledge. 

Hor.  Is  it  a  custom  ? 

Ham.  Ay,  marry,  is't. 

But  to  my  mind, — though  I  am  native  here 
And  to  the  manner  born, — it  is  a  custom 
More  honored  in  the  breach,  than  the  observance. 

Enter  Ghost. 

Hor.  Look,  my  lord,  it  comes  ! 

Ham.  Angels  and  ministers  of  grace  defend  us  1 
Be  thou  a  spirit  of  health  or  goblin  damned, 
Bring  with  thee  airs  from  heaven  or  blasts  from  heU 
Be  thy  intents  wicked  or  charitable. 
Thou  com'st  in  such  a  questionable  shape. 
That  I  will  speak  to  thee.     I'll  call  thee,  Hamlet, 
King,  father,  royal  Dane.     0,  answer  me  I 
Let  me  not  burst  in  ignorance  !  but  tell. 
Why  thy  canonized  bones,  hearsed  in  death, 
Have  burst  their  cerements  !  why  the  sepulcher. 
Wherein  we  saw  thee  quietly  inurned, 
Hath  oped  his  ponderous  and  marble  jaws, 
To  cast  thee  up  again  !     What  may  this  mean, 
That  thou,  dead  corse,  again,  in  complete  steel. 
Revisit' st  thus  the  glimpses  of  the  moon. 
Making  night  hideous ;  and  we  fools  of  nature, 
So  horridly  to  shake  our  disposition. 
With  thoughts  beyond  the  regions  of  our  souls  ? 
Say,  why  is  this  ?  wherefore  ?  what  should  we  do  ? 

Hor.  It  beckons  you  to  go  away  with  it, 
As  if  it  some  impartment  did  desire 
To  you  alone. 

Mar.  Look,  with  what  courteous  action 

it  waves  you  to  a  more  removed  ground  ! 
But  do  not  go  with  it. 

Hor.  No  J  by  no  means. 

Eam.  It  will  not  speak;  then  I  will  follow  it. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  147 

Hot    Do  not,  my  lord. 

Ham.  Why,  what  should  be  the  fear  ? 

I  do  not  set  my  life  at  a  pin's  fee ; 
And,  for  my  soul,  what  can  it  do  to  that^ 
Being  a  thing  immortal  as  itself? 
Tt  waves  me  forth  again  j — I'll  follow  it. 

Hor.  What  if  it  tempt  you  toward  the  flood,  my   ord, 
Or  to  the  dreadful  summit  of  the  cliff, 
That  beetles  o'er  his  base  into  the  sea? 
A.rd  there  assume  some  other  horrible  form, 
Which  might  deprive  your  sovereignty  of  reason, 
And  draw  you  into  madness  ?     Think  of  it. 
The  very  place  puts  toys  of  desperation, 
Without  more  motive,  into  every  brain. 
That  looks  so  many  fathoms  to  the  sea. 
And  hears  it  roar  beneath. 

Ham.  It  waves  me  still. 

Go  on,  I'll  follow  thee. 

Ghost.  Mark  me ! 

Ham.  I  will. 

Ghost.  My  hour  is  almost  come, 

When  I  to  sulphurous  and  tormenting  flames 
Must  render  up  myself. 

Ham.  Alas,  poor  ghost  I 

Ghost.  Pity  me  not,  but  lend  thy  serious  hearing 
To  what  I  shall  unfold. 

Ham.  Speak ;  I  am  bound  to  hear. 

Ghost.  So  art  thou  to  revenge  when  thou  shalt  hear. 

Ham.  What? 

Ghost.  I  am  thy  father's  spirit 

Doomed  for  a  certain  term  to  walk  the  night ) 
And,  for  the  day,  confined  to  fast  in  fires. 
Till  the  foul  crimes,  done  in  my  days  of  nature. 
Are  burned  and  purged  away.     But  that  I  am  forbid 
To  tell  the  secrets  of  my  prison-house, 
I  could  a  tale  unfold,  whose  lightest  word 
Would  harrow  up  thy  soul ;  freeze  thy  young  blood ; 


nS  SANDER8       UNION     SERIES. 

Make  thy  two  eyes,  like  stars,  start  from  their  spheres; 

Thy  knotted  and  combined  locks  to  part, 

And  each  particular  hair  to  stand  on  end, 

Like  quills  upon  the  fretful  porcupine. 

But  this  eternal  blazon  must  not  be 

To  ears  of  flesh  and  blood  : — List,  list,  0  list ! — 

tf  thou  didst  ever  thy  dear  father  love, — 

Ham.  O  Heaven  ! 

Ghost.  Revenge  his  foul  and  most  unnatural  murder. 

Ham.  Murder  ? 

Ghost.  Murder  most  foul,  as  in  the  best  it  is  j 
Bat  thi3  most  foul,  strange,  and  unnatural. 

Ham.  Haste  me  to  know  it ;  that  I  with  wings  as  swift 
As  meditation,  or  the  thoughts  of  love, 
May  sweep  to  my  revenge. 

Ghost.  I  find  thee  apt ; 

And  duller  shouldst  thou  be  than  the  fat  weed 
That  roots  itself  in  ease  on  Lethe's  wharf, 
Wouldst  thou  not  stir  in  this.     Now,  Hamlet,  hear, 
'Tis  given  out,  that  sleeping  in  mine  orchard, 
A  serpent  stung  me ;  so  the  whole  ear  of  Denmark 
Is,  by  a  forged  process  of  my  death, 
Rankly  abused.     But  know,  thou  noble  youth, 
The  serpent  that  did  sting  thy  father's  life, 
Now  wears  his  crown. 

Ham.  0,  my  prophetic  soul  I  my  uncle  ! 

Ghost.  Ay,  that  incestuous,  that  adulterate  beast, 
With  witchcraft  of  his  wit,  with  traitorous  gifts, 
(0  wicked  wit,  and  gifts,  that  have  the  power 
So  to  seduce !)  won  to  his  shameful  love 
The  will  of  my  most  seeming  virtuous  queen 
0  Hamlet,  what  a  falling-oflF  was  there ! 
From  me  whose  love  was  of  that  dignity. 
That  it  went  hand  in  hand  even  with  the  vow 
T  made  to  her  in  marriage ;  and  to  decline 
Upon  a  wretch,  whose  natural  gifts  were  poor 
To  those  of  mine  I 


RHETORICAL    READER.  149 

But  soft!  niethinks  I  scent  the  morning  air; 

Brief  let  me  be.     Sleeping  within  mine  orchard. 

My  custom  always  of  the  afternoon, 

Upon  my  secure  hour  thy  uncle  stole, 

With  juice  of  cursed  hebenoii  in  a  vial, 

And  in  the  porches  of  mine  ears  did  pour 

The  leprous  distillment;  whose  effect 

Holds  such  an  enmity  with  blood  of  man, 

That,  swift  as  quicksilver,  it  courses  through 

The  natural  gates  and  alleys  of  the  body  j 

And,  with  a  sudden  vigor,  it  doth  posset 

And  curd,  like  eager  droppings  into  milk, 

The  thin  and  wholesome  blood :  so  did  it  mine, 

And  a  most  instant  tetter  barked  about, 

Most  lazar-like,  with  vile  and  loathsome  crust, 

All  my  smooth  body. 

Thus  was  I,  sleeping,  by  a  brother's  hand. 

Of  life,  of  crown,  of  queen  at  once  dispatched  j 

Cut  off  even  in  the  blossoms  of  my  sin, 

Unhouseled,  disappointed,  unaneled ; 

No  reckoning  made,  but  sent  to  my  account 

With  all  my  imperfections  on  my  head. 

0  horrible  !     0  horrible  !  most  horrible  I 

If  thou  hast  nature  in  thee,  bear  it  not ; 

But,  howsoe'er  thou  pursu'st  this  act, 

Taint  not  thy  mind,  nor  let  thy  soul  contrive 

Against  thy  mother  aught;  leave  her  to  Heaven, 

And  to  those  thorns  that  in  her  bosom  lodge, 

To  prick  and  sting  her.     Fare  thee  well  at  once  I 

The  glowworm  shows  the  matin  to  be  near, 

And  'gins  to  pale  his  ineffectual  fire ; 

Adieu,  adieu,  adieu  !  remember  me,  {^Exit 

Ham.  O  all  you  host  of  heaven  !     0  earth  !     What  else  ? 
And  shall  T  couple  hell?     0,  fie !     Hold,  hold,  my  heart; 
And  you  my  sinews,  grow  not  instant  old. 
But  bear  me  stiffly  u  p  !     Remember  thee  ? 
Ay,  thou  pool  ghost,  while  memory  holds  a  seat 


160  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES. 

lu  this  distracted  globe.     Remember  thee  ? 

Yea,  from  the  tables  of  my  memory 

I'll  wipe  away  all  trivial,  fond  records. 

All  saws  of  books,  all  forms,  all  pressures  past, 

That  youth  and  observation  copied  there ; 

And  thy  commandment  all  alone  shall  live 

Within  the  book  and  volume  of  my  brain, 

Ilumixed  with  baser  matter.     Yes,  by  Heaven  1 

D  most  pernicious  woman  ! 

0  villain,  villain,  smiling,   cursed  villain  I 

My  tables, — meet  it  is   I  set  it  down, 

That  one  may  smile,  and  smile,  and  be  a  villain ' 


EXERCISE  XXXII. 
THE  FATE  0  !'  MACGREGOR. 


JAMKS   BOM.* 


'  Macgregor,  Macgregor,  remember  our  foemen ; 
The  moon  rises  broad  from  the  brow  of  Ben-Lomond ; 
The  clans  are  impatient,  and  chide  thy  delay; 
Arise !  let  us  bound  to  Grlen-Lyon  away." — 

Stem  scowled  the  Macgregor,  then  silent  and  sullen, 
He  turned  his  red  eye  to  the  braes  of  Strathfillan : 
"  Go,  Malcolm,  to  sloep,  let  the  clans  be  dismissed  j 
The  Campbells  this  night  for  Macgregor  must  rest." 

11. 

*'  Macgregor,  Macgregor,  our  scouts  have  been  flying, 
Three  days  round  the  hills  of  M'Nab  and  Glen-Lyonj 
Of  riding  and  running  such  tidings  they  bear. 
We  must  meet  them  at  home  else  they'll  quickly  be  here, 

"  The  Campbell  may  come,  as  his  promises  bind  him, 
And  haughty  M'Nab,  with  his  giants  behind  himj 


*  See  Exercise  X. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  151 

This  night  I  am  bound  to  relinquish  the  fray, 
And  do  what  it  freezes  my  vitals  to  say. 

III. 

''  I  orgive  me,  dear  brother,  this  horror  of  mind; 
Thou  knowest  in  the  strife  I  was  never  behind, 
Nor  ever  receded  a  foot  from  the  van. 
Or  blenched  at  the  ire  or  the  prowess  of  man  : 
But  I've  sworn,  by  the  cross,  by  my  Grod,  and  my  all' 
An  oath  which  I  can  not,  and  dare  not  recall — 
Ere  the  shadows  of  midnight  fall  east  from  the  pile, 
To  meet  with  a  spirit  this  night  in  Grlen-Gyle. 

IV. 

"  Last  night,  in  my  chamber,  all  thoughtful  and  lone, 
I  called  to  remembrance  some  deeds  I  had  done, 
When  entered  a  lady,  with  visage  so  wan, 
And  looks,  such  as  never  were  fastened  on  man. 
I  knew  her,  0  brother  !  I  knew  her  too  well ! 
Of  that  once  fair  dame  such  a  tale  I  could  tell 
As  would  thrill  thy  bold  heart ;  but  how  long  she  remained 
So  racked  was  my  spirit,  my  bosom  so  pained, 
I  knew  not — but  ages  seemed  short  to  the  while, 
Though,  proffer  the  Highlands,  nay,  all  the  green  isle, 
With  length  of  existence  no  man  can  enjoy, 
The  same  to  endure,  the  dread  proffer  I'd  fly ! 
The  thrice-threatened  pangs  of  last  night  to  forego, 
Macgregor  would  dive  to  the  mansions  below. 
Despairing  and  mad,  to  futurity  blind. 
The  present  to  shun  and  some  respite  to  find, 
I  swore,  ere  the  shadow  fell  east  from  the  pile, 
To  meet  her  alone  by  the  brook  of  Grlen-Gyle. 


**  She  told  me,  and  turned  my  chilled  heart  to  a  stone 
The  glory  and  name  of  Macgregor  were  gone  • 


162  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES. 

That  the  pine,  which  for  ages  had  shed  a  bright  halo 
Afar  on  the  mountains  of  Highland  Glen-Falo, 
Should  wither  and  fall  ere  the  turn  of  yon  moon 
Smit  through  by  the  canker  of  hated  Colquhoun : 
That  a  feast  on  Macgregors  each  day  should  be  commoa, 
For  years,  to  the  eagles  of  Lennox  and  Lomond. 

VI. 

"A  parting  embrace,  in. one  moment  she  gave ; 
Her  breath  was  a  furnace,  her  bosom  the  grave  I 
Then  flitting  illusive,  she  said,  with  a  frown, 
'  The  mighty  Macgregor  shall  yet  be  my  own  !' " 

VII. 

"  Macgregor,  thy  fancies  are  wild  as  the  wind ; 
The  dreams  of  the  night  have  disordered  thy  mind, 
Come,  buckle  thy  panoply — march  to  the  field — 
See,  brother,  how  hacked  are  thy  helmet  and  shield  I 
Ay,  that  was  M'Nab,  in  the  hight  of  his  pride, 
When  the  lions  of  Dochart  stood  firm  by  his  side. 
This  night  the  proud  chief  his  presumption  shall  rue; 
Rise,  brother,  these  chinks  in  his  heart-blood  will  glue ; 
Thy  fantasies  frightful  shall  flit  on  the  wing. 
When  loud  with  thy  bugle  Glen-Lyon  shall  ring." 

VIII. 

Like  glimpse  of  the  moon  through  the  storm -of  the  nignt, 
Macgregor's  red  eye  shed  one  sparkle  of  light : 
It  faded — it  darkened — he  shuddered — he  sighed — 
"  No !  not  for  the  universe  I"  low  he  replied. 

Away  went  Macgregor,  but  went  not  alone  : 
To  watch  the  dread  rendezvous,  Malcolm  has  gone. 
They  oared  the  broad  Lomond,  so  still  and  serene, 
And  deep  in  her  bosom,  how  awful  the  scene ! 
O'er  mountains  inverted,  the  blue  waters  curled, 
And  rocked  them  on  skies  of  a  far  nether  world. 


RHETORICAL    READER. 


IX. 


153 


All  silent  they  went,  for  the  time  was  approaching ; 
The  moon  the  blue  zenith  already  was  touching ; 
No  foot  was  abroad  on  the  forest  or  hill, 
No  sound  but  the  lullaby  sung  by  the  rill : 
Young  Malcolm,  at  distance  couched,  trembling  the  while— 
Maca:regor  stood  lone  by  the  brook  of  Glen-Gyle. 

X. 

Jj'ew  minutes  had  passed,  ere  they  spied  on  the  stream 
A  skiff  sailing  light,  where  a  lady  did  seem ; 
Her  sail  was  the  web  of  the  gossamer's  loom  j 
The  glow-worm  her  wake-light,  the  rainbow  her  boom ; 
A  dim  rayless  beam  was  her  prow  and  her  mast, 
Like  wold-fire  at  midnight,  that  glares  on  the  waste. 
Though  rough  was  the  river  with  rock  and  cascade, 
No  torrent,  no  rock,  her  velocity  stayed ; 
She  wimpled  the  water  to  weather  and  lee. 
And  heaved  as  if  born  on  the  waves  of  the  sea. 
Mute  Nature  was  roused  in  the  bounds  of  the  glen  j 
The  wild  deer  of  Gairtney  abandoned  his  den. 
Fled  panting  away,  over  river  and  isle. 
Nor  once  turned  his  eye  to  the  brook  of  Glen-Gyle. 


XI. 

The  fox  fled  in  terror ;  the  eagle  awoke 
As  slumbering  he  dozed  on  the  shelve  of  the  rock; 
Astonished,  to  hide  in  the  moonbeam  he  flew, 
And  screwed  the  night-heaven  till  lost  in  the  blue. 

Young  Malcolm  beheld  the  pale  lady  approach, 
The  chieftain  salute  her,  and  shrink  from  her  touch. 
He  saw  the  Macgregor  kneel  down  on  the  plain, 
As  begging  for  something  he  could  not  obtain ; 
She  raised  him  indignant,  derided  his  stay. 
Then  bore  him  on  board,  set  her  sail,  and  away. 
7*  H 


154  SANDERS'     UNION    SERIES. 

XII. 

Though  fast  the  red  bark  down  the  river  did  glide, 
Yet  faster  ran  Malcolm  adown  by  its  side ; 
"  Macgregor  !  Macgregor  I"  he  bitterly  cried ; 
"  Macgregor  !  Macgregor  !"  the  echoes  replied. 
He  struck  at  the  lady,  but,  strange  though  it  seem. 
His  sword  only  fell  on  the  rocks  and  the  stream; 
But  the  groans  from  the  boat,  that  ascended  amain, 
Were  groans  from  a  bosom  in  horror  and  pain. 
They  reached  the  dark  lake,  and  bore  lightly  away — 
Macgregor  is  vanished  forever  and  aye  I 


EXERCISE  XXXIII. 

WiNTHROP  M.  Praed  was  an  English  poet  of  considerable  distinction. 
He  was  born  in  London  in  1802,  and  died  in  1839.  The  two  beautiful 
Charades  following,  are  selected  from  many  efforts  in  this  way  from  his  pen. 

Charade  is  a  species  of  Enigma  or  Riddle,  and  is  so  called  from  the 
name  (Charade)  of  the  person  who  invented  it.  The  subject  of  the 
Charade  is  a  name  or  word  enigmatically  described  or  indicated  by  its 
Beyeral  syllables  and  their  combination,  when  taken  together  as  a  whole. 

CHARADE 
ON    THE    NAME    OF   CAMPBELL   THE   POET. 

W.  H.   PRAED. 
I. 

Come  from  my  First,  ay,  come  I 

The  battle  dawn  is  nigh ; 
And  the  screaming  trump  and  the  thund'ring  drum 

Are  calling  thee  to  die  ! 
Fight  as  thy  father  fought, 

Fall  as  thy  father  fell, 
Tliy  task  is  taught,  thy  shroud  is  wrought; 

So — forward  !  and  farewell ! 


RHBTORICAL    READER.  155 

n. 

Toll  ye,  my  Second  !  toll ! 

Fling  high  the  flambeau's  light; 
And  sing  the  hymn  for  a  parted  soul, 

Beneath  the  silent  night ! 
The  wreath  upon  his  head, 

The  cross  upon  his  breast, 
Let  the  prayer  be  said,  and  the  tear  be  «hed ; 

So — take  him  to  his  rest ! 

in. 

Call  ye  my  Whole,  ay,  call ! 

The  lord  of  lute  and  lay; 
And  let  him  greet  the  sable  pall 

With  a  noble  song  to-day ; 
Go,  call  him  by  his  name ; 

No  fitter  hand  may  crave 
To  light  the  flame  of  a  soldier's  fame 

On  the  turf  of  a  soldier's  grave. 


EXERCISE  XXXIV. 

CHARADE 

ON    THE    WORD    BLOCKHEAD. 

I. 

Sir  Harry  is  famed  for  his  amiable  way 
Of  talking  a  deal  when  he's  nothing  to  say: 
Sir  Harry  will  sit  by  our  Rosalie's  side, 
And  whisper  from  morn  until  eventide ; 
Yet,  if  you  would  ask  of  that  maiden  fail, 
What  Sir  Harry  said  while  he  lingered  there; 
Were  the  maiden  as  clever  as  L.  E.  L., 
Not  a  word  that  he  said  could  the  maiden  tell. 


156  SANDERS'     UNION    SERIES 

II. 

Sir  Harry  has  ears,  and  Sir  Harry  has  eyes, 

And  Sir  Harry  has  teeth  of  the  usual  size ; 

His  nose  is  a  nose  of  the  every-day  sort — 

Not  exceedingly  long  nor  excessively  short  j 

And  his  breath,  though  resembling  in  naught  "  th»5  sweet  south," 

Is  /whaled  through  his  lips,  and  exhaled  from  his  mouth ; 

And  yet  from  the  hour  that  Sir  Harry  was  nursed, 

People  said  that  his  head  was  no  more  than  my  First  ! 

III. 
bii  Harry  has  ringlets  he  curls  every  day, 
And  a  fortune  he  spends  in  pomatum,  they  say ; 
He  is  just  such  a  youth  as  our  Rosalie  bides  with, 
When  she  has'nt  got  me  to  take  waltzes  or  rides  with ;         _ 
But  not  such  a  one,  as,  I  ween,  she  would  choose, 
Were  a  youth  that  /know  to  be  caught  in  the  noose; 
For  I've  oft  heard  her  say — though  so  flighty  she's  reckoned-  • 
That  she'd  ne'er  take  a  bridegroom  who  hadn't  my  Se:ond  1 

IV. 
Sir  Harry  sat  out,  the  last  visit  he  paid, 
From  when  breakfast  was  over,  till  dinner  was  laid  ! 
He  talked,  in  his  usual  laay-like  way, 
Of  the  ball  and  the  ballet — the  park  and  the  play. 
Little  Rosa,  who  hoped,  ere  the  whole  day  had  passed. 
That  the  youth  would  speak  out,  to  the  purpose,  at  last, 
When  evening,  at  length,  was  beginning  to  fall, 
Declared  that  Sir  Harry  was  naught  but  my  All  1 

CHARADE 
ON   THE   NAME    OF   DR.    BARNARD. 

SAMUEL  JOHUSON 

My  First  shuts  thieves  from  your  house  or  your  ro(»m ; 
My  Second  expresses  a  Syrian  perfume ; 
My  Whole  is  a  man  in  whose  converse  I  shared 
The  strength  of  a  bar  and  the  sweetness  of  nard. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  157 


EXERCISE  XXXV. 


Sir  James  Mackintosh,  one  of  the  ablest  of  British  philosophers  and 
htatesmen,  was  born  near  Inverness,  in  Scotland,  October  24th,  1765,  and 
died  May  22d,  1S32.  He  was  considered  a  prodigy  of  learning,  while  yet  a 
mere  boy ;  and,  in  after  life,  was  regarded  as  one  of  the  ablest  lawyers,  the 
wisest  statesmen,  the  profoundest  philosophers,  and  the  most  elegant  writers, 
Ihat  Britain  has  ever  produced.  His  reputation  for  forensic  eloquence  was 
raised  to  its  highest  pitch  by  the  splendid  speech  from  which  we  have  taken 
the  following  extract.  It  was  delivered  in  discharge  of  his  duty,  as  counsel 
for  Mr.  Peltier  (February  21st,  1803),  who  was  on  his  trial  in  England  for 
libel  in  Napoleon  Bonaparte,  then  First  Consul  of  France. 

THE  SPIRIT  OF  BRITISH  LIBERTY. 

SIR  JAMES  MACKINTCeH. 

1.  In  the  court  where  we  have  now  met,  gentlemen,  Crom- 
well twice  sent  a  satirist  on  his  tyranny  to  be  convicted  and 
punished  as  a  libeler,  and  in  this  court, — ahnost  in  sight  of  the 
scaffold  streaming  with  the  blood  of  his  Sovereign, — within 
hearing  of  the  clash  of  his  bayonets  which  drove  out  Parlia- 
ments with  scorn  and  contumely, — a  jury  twice  rescued  the 
intrepid  satirist  from  his  fangs,  and  sent  out  with  defeat  and 
disgrace  the  usurper's  Attorney-general  from  what  he  had  the 
impudence  to  call  his  court. 

2.  Even  then,  gentlemen,  when  all  law  and  liberty  were 
trampled  under  the  feet  of  a  military  banditti, — when  those 
great  crimes  were  perpetrated,  in  a  high  place  and  with  a  high 
hand,  against  those  who  were  the  objects  of  public  veneration, 
which  more  than  anything  else  upon  earth  overwhelm  the  minds 
of  men,  break  their  spirits  and  confound  their  moral  sentiments, 
obliterate  the  distinctions  between  right  and  wrong  in  their 
understanding,  and  teach  the  multitude  to  feel  no  longer  any 
reverence  for  that  justice  which  they  thus  see  triumphantly 
dragged  at  the  chariot  wheels  of  a  tyrant, — even  then,  when  this 
onhappy  country,  triumphant,  indeed,  abroad,  but  enslaved  at 
home,  had  no  prospect  but  that  of  a  long  succession  of  tyrants 
^'wading  through  slaughter  to  a  throne," — even  then,  I  say, 
when  all  seemed  lost,  the  unconquerable  spirit  of  English  bberty 
survived  in  the  hearts  of  English  jurors. 


l'^8  SANDERS'    UNION     SERIES. 

3.  That  spirit  is,  I  trust  in  God,  not  extinct:  and,  if  any 
modern  tyrant  were,  in  the  plenitude  of  his  insolence,  to  hope 
to  overawe  an  English  jury,  I  trust  and  I  believe  that  they 
would  tell  him  : — "  Our  ancestors  braved  the  bayonets  of  Crom- 
well; we  bid  defiance  to  yours  1" 

4.  What  would  be  such  a  tyrant's  means  of  overawing  a  jury  ? 
As  long  as  their  country  exists,  they  are  girt  round  with  impenc- 
tiablo  armor.  Till  the  destruction  of  their  country,  no  danger 
can  fall  upon  them  for  the  performance  of  their  duty.  And  1 
do  trust  that  there  is  no  Englishman  so  unworthy  of  life  as  to 
desire  to  outlive  England. 

5.  But,  if  any  of  us  are  condemned  to  the  cruel  punishment 
of  surviving  our  country, — if,  in  the  inscrutable  counsels  of 
Providence,  this  favored  seat  of  justice  and  liberty, — this  noblest 
work  of  human  wisdom  and  virtue,  be  destined  to  destruction 
(which  I  shall  not  be  charged  with  national  prejudice  for  saying 
would  be  the  most  dangerous  wound  ever  inflicted  on  civilization), 
at  least,  let  us  carry  with  us  into  our  sad  exile  the  consolation 
that  we  ourselves  have  not  violated  the  rights  of  hospitality  to 
exiles, — that  we  have  not  torn  from  the  altar  the  suppliant  who 
claimed  protection  as  the  voluntary  victim  of  loyalty  and  con- 
science. 


EXERCISE  XXXVI. 

Juwius  is  the  assumed  name  of  one  of  the  most  extraordinary  writers  it 
the  Hiole  range  of  literature.  His  compositions  are  in  the  form  of  Letters, 
addressed  to  various  leading  men  of  his  day,  and  were  published  in  a  news- 
paper, called  the  "London  Advertiser."  The  time,  during  which  they 
appeared,  reaches  from  January  1769  to  January  1772.  The  whole  number 
of  letters,  admitted  to  be  his,  is  about  sixty.  As  specimens  of  withering 
rebuke,  and  caustic  satire,  clear,  condensed,  and  elegant  diction,  fine,  pointed 
personal  application,  with  all  the  grace  and  power  of  striking  and  appropriate 
metaphor,  they  are,  even  at  this  distant  period,  the  admiration  of  the  literary 
world.     Who  he  was,  has  never  yet  been  certainly  ascertained,  though  scores 


RHETORICAL    READER.  159 

of  pamphlets  and  essays  have  been  written  upon  the  subje«it.     The  following 
is  OIK  of  the  sharpest  and  bitterest  of  the  whole  series. 

LETTER  TO  THE  DUKE  OF  BEDFORD. 

fomun. 

To  His  Grrace  the  Duke  of  Bedford. 

My  Lord  : — 

1.  ^ou  are  so  little  accustomed  to  receive  any  marks  of  respect 
or  esteem  from  the  public,  that  if,  in  the  following  lines,  a  com- 
pliment or  expression  of  applause  should  escape  me,  I  fear  you 
would  consider  it  as  a  mockery  of  your  established  character, 
and,  perhaps,  an  insult  to  your  understanding.  You  have  nice 
feelings,  my  Lord,  if  we  may  judge  from  your  resentments. 
Cautious,  therefore,  of  giving  offense,  where  you  have  so  little 
deserved  it,  I  shall  leave  the  illustration  of  your  virtues  to  other 
hands.  Your  friends  have  a  privilege  to  play  upon  the  easiness 
of  your  temper,  or,  possibly,  they  are  better  acquainted  with  youi 
good  qualities  than  I  am.  You  have  done  good  by  stealth. 
The  rest  is  upon  record.  You  have  still  left  ample  room  for 
Kpeculation,  when  panegyric  is  exhausted. 

2.  You  are,  indeed,  a  very  considerable  man.  The  highest 
rank ;  a  splendid  fortune ;  and  a  name,  glorious  till  it  was  yours, 
were  sufi&cient  to  have  supported  you  with  meaner  abilities  than 
I  think  you  possess.  From  the  first  you  derived  a  constitutional 
claim  to  respect;  from  the  second,  a  natural  extensive  authority; 
the  last  created  a  partial  expectation  of  hereditary  virtues.  The 
use  you  have  made  of  these  uncommon  advantages  might  have 
been  more  honorable  to  yourself,  but  could  not  be  more  instruct- 
ive to  mankind.  We  may  trace  it  in  the  veneration  of  your 
country,  the  choice  of  your  friends,  and  in  the  accomplishment 
of  every  sanguine  hope,  which  the  public  might  have  conceived 
froit  the  illustrious  name  of  Russell. 

3.  The  eminence  of  your  station  gave  you  a  commanding 
prospect  of  your  duty.  The  road  which  led  to  hono.*,  wls  open 
to  your  view.  You  could  not  lose  it  by  mistake,  and  you  had 
no  temptation  to  depart  from  it  by  design.  Compare  the  natural 
dignity  and  importance  of  the  richest  peer  of  England;  the 
noble  independence,  which  he  might  have  maintained  in  parlia- 


160  SANDERS'     UNION    SERIES. 

tnenfc,  and  the  real  interest  and  respect,  which  he  might  have 
acquired,  not  only  in  parliament,  but  through  the  whole  king- 
dom ;  compare  these  glorious  distinctions  with  the  ambition  of 
holding  a  share  in  government,  the  emoluments  of  a  place,  the 
sale  of  a  borough,  or  the  purchase  of  a  corporation ;  and,  though 
you  may  not  regret  the  virtues  which  create  respect,  you  may 
see,  with  anguish,  how  much  real  importance  and  authority  you 
have  lost.  Consider  the  character  of  an  independent,  virtuous 
Duke  of  Bedford ;  imagine  what  he  might  be  in  this  country, 
thon  reflect  one  moment  upon  what  you  are.  If  it  be  possible 
for  me  to  withdraw  my  attention  from  the  fact,  I  will  tell,  in 
theory,  what  such  a  man  might  be. 

4.  Conscious  of  his  own  weight  and  importance,  his  conduct 
in  parliament  would  be  directed  by  nothing  but  the  constitu- 
tional duty  of  a  peer.  He  would  consider  himself  as  a  guardian 
of  the  laws.  Willing  to  support  the  just  measures  of  govern- 
ment, but  determined  to  observe  the  conduct  of  the  minister 
with  suspicion,  he  would  oppose  the  violence  of  faction  with  as 
much  firmness  as  the  encroachments  of  prerogative.  He  would 
be  as  little  capable  of  bargaining  with  the  minister  for  places 
for  himself,  or  his  dependents,  as  of  descending  to  mix  himself 
in  the  intrigues  of  opposition. 

5.  Whenever  an  important  question  called  for  his  opinion  in 
parliament,  he  would  be  heard,  by  the  most  profligate  minister, 
with  deference  and  respect.  His  authority  would  either  sanctify 
or  disgrace  the  measures  of  government.  The  people  would 
look  up  to  him,  as  to  their  protector,  and  a  virtuous  prince 
would  have  one  honest  man  in  his  dominions,  in  whose  integrity 
and  judgment  he  might  safely  confide.  If  it  should  be  the  will 
of  Providence  to  afflict  him  with  domestic  misfortune,*  he  would 
submit  to  the  stroke,  with  feeling,  but  not  without  dignity.  He 
wouli  consider  the  people  as  his  children,  and  receive  a  generous, 
heartfelt  consolation,  in  the  sympathizing  tears  and  blessings  of 
lis  country. 

6.  Your  Grrace  may  probably  discover  something  more  in- 

*  The  duke  had  lately  lost  a  son  by  death. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  161 

telligible  in  the  negative  part  oi  this  illustrious  chaiacter.  The 
man  I  have  described,  would  never  prostitute  his  dignity  in 
parliament  by  an  indecent  violence  either  in  opposing  or  de- 
fending a  minister.  He  would  not  at  one  moment  rancorously 
persecute,  at  another  basely  cringe  to  the  favorite  of  his  sove- 
reign. After  outraging  the  royal  dignity  with  peremptory  con- 
ditions, little  short  of  menace  and  hostility,  he  would  never 
desceni  to  the  humility  of  soliciting  an  interview  with  the 
favorite,  and  of  offering  to  recover,  at  any  price,  the  honor  of 
his  friendship.  Though  deceived,  perhaps,  in  his  youth,  he 
should  not,  through  the  course  of  a  long  life,  have  invariably 
<*-hosen  his  friends  from  among  the  most  profligate  of  mankind. 

7.  His  own  honor  would  have  forbidden,  him  from  mixing 
his  private  pleasures  or  conversation  with  jockeys,  gamesters, 
blasphemers,  gladiators,  or  buffoons.  He  would  then  have 
never  felt,  much  less  would  he  have  submitted  to  the  humili- 
ating, dishonest  necessity  of  engaging  in  the  interest  and 
intrigues  of  his  dependents,  of  supplying  their  vices,  or  relieving 
their  beggary,  at  the  expense  of  his  country.  He  would  not 
have  betrayed  such  ignorance,  or  such  contempt  of  the  constitu- 
tion, as  openly  to  avow,  in  a  court  of  justice,  the  purchase  and 
sale  of  a  borough.  He  would  not  have  thought  it  consistent 
with  his  rank  in  the  state,  or  even  with  his  personal  importance, 
to  be  the  little  tyrant  of  a  little  corporation. 

8.  He  would  never  have  been  insulted  with  virtues  wbich 
he  had  labored  to  extinguish,  nor  suffered  the  disgrace  of  a 
mortifying  defeat,  which  has  made  him  ridiculous  and  con- 
temptible, even  to  the  few  by  whom  he  was  not  detested.  I 
reverence  the  afflictions  of  a  good  man, — his  sorrows  are  sacred. 
But  how  can  we  take  part  in  the  distresses  of  a  man  whom  we 
can  neither  love  nor  esteem ;  or  feel  for  a  calamity  of  which  he 
himself  is  insensible  ?  Where  was  the  father's  1  cart,  when  he 
could  look  for,  or  find  an  immediate  consolation  for  the  loss  of 
an  only  son,  in  consultations  and  bargains  for  a  place  at  court, 
ard  even  in  the  misery  of  balloting  at  the  India  House  I 


162  SANDERS       UNION     SKRIBB. 


EXERCISE  XXXTII. 


JosiAH  Gilbert  11  jlland,  who,  a  few  years  since,  acquired,  by  the  publi- 
cation of  a  book  entitled  Timothy  Titcomh's  Letters  to  Young  People,  a  con- 
gpicuous  place  among  writers  of  wide  and  well-deserved  popularity,  was  born 
in  Belchertown,  Massachusetts,  in  July,  1819.  His  studies,  in  preparation 
for  college,  were  pursued  with  such  assiduity  as  to  impair  his  health,  and,  on 
that  account,  were  discontinued  before  he  was  ready  to  enter. 

Some  time  after  this,  however,  he  commenced  the  study  of  medicine,  and 
m  1845,  received  the  degree  of  M.D.  at  the  Berkshire  Medical  College,  ii 
Pittsfield,  Massachusetts.  He  then  went  to  Springfield,  and  there  entered 
upon  the  practice  of  his  profession.     Not  long  after  this  he  was  married. 

The  proceeds  of  his  practice,  after  a  trial  of  two  years,  proving  inadequate 
to  his  support,  he  left  Springfield  to  take  charge  of  a  private  school  in  Rich- 
mond, Virginia.  Here  he  remained  but  a  short  time,  having  received  the  ap- 
pointment of  Superintendent  of  Public  Instruction  in  Vicksburg,  Mississippi. 

While  discharging  the  duties  of  this  latter  office,  he  wrote  often  and  well 
for  the  press ;  and  his  ability,  in  this  way,  soon  secured  him  an  offer  of  the 
editorship  of  the  Springfield  Republican.    This  he  accepted,  and  still  holds. 

Besides  the  Letters  to  Young  People,  which  first  made  him  known,  he  has 
written  a  number  of  works,  from  the  last  of  which — Lessons  in,  Life — we  have 
*aken  the  paragraphs  which  constitute  the  following  Exercise. 

In  this  piece  wUl  be  found  something  of  that  which  seems  to  be  the  m^ 
spring  of  all  his  success  as  a  writer,  namely,  the  power  clearly  to  perceive,  and 
sharply  to  expose,  the  follies  and  errors  and  vices  that  so  often  and  so  widely 
work  mischief  in  life,  only  because  they  work  under  decent  disguises  and 
mistaken  views.  To  this  task  of  exposure  he  brings  a  style  singularly  vivid, 
full  of  apt  illustration,  often  aphoristic,  and  always  abounding  in  good  sense 
and  good  humor. 

MEN  OF  ONE  IDEA. 

JOaiAH  OILBEBT  HOLLAND. 

1.  I  suppose  it  is  useless  to  undertake  to  reform  men  of  one 
idea.  The  real  trouble  is  that  the  pebble  is  in  them  ;  and  whole 
freshets  of  truth  are  poured  upon  them,  only  with  the  eflfect  to 
make  it  more  lively  in  its  grinding,  and  more  certain  in  its  pro- 
cess of  wearing  out  itself  and  them.  The  little  man  who,  when 
ordered  by  his  physician  to  take  a  quart  of  medicine,  informed 
liim  with  a  deprecatory  whimper  that  he  did  not  hold  but  a  pint, 
illiislrates  the  capacity  of  many  of  those  who  are  subjects  of  a 
single  idea.  They  do  not  hold  but  one,  and  it  would  be  useless 
t>o  prescribe  a  larger  number. 

2.  In  a  country  like  ours,  in  which  everything  is  new  and 
everybody  is  free,  there  are  multitudes  of  self-constituted  doctors, 


RHETORICAL     READER.  163 

each  of  whom  has  a  nostrum  for  curing  all  physical  and  moral 
disorders  and  diseases, — a  patent  process  by  which  humanity 
may  achieve  its  proudest  prooress  and  its  everlasting  happiness. 
The  country  is  full  of  hobby-riders,  booted  and  spurred,  who 
imagine  they  are  leading  a  grand  race  to  a  golden  goal,  forget- 
ful of  the  truth  that  their  steeds  are  tethered  to  a  single  idea, 
around  which  they  are  revolving  only  to  tread  down  the  grass 
and  wind  themselves  up,  where  they  may  stand  at  last  amid  th 
world's  ridicule,  and  starve  to  death. 

3.  Man  can  not  live  by  bread  alone,  but  by  every  word  that 
proceeds  out  of  the  mouth  of  God,  whether  spoken  through  na- 
ture or  revelation.  There  is  no  one  idea  in  all  God's  universe 
so  great  ond  so  nutritious  that  it  can  furnish  food  for  an  immor- 
tal soul  Variety  of  nutriment  is  absolutely  essential,  even  to 
physic?!  health.  There  are  so  many  elements  that  enter  into 
the  sti^'icture  of  the  human  body,  and  such  variety  of  stimuli 
requif^'te  for  the  play  of  its  vital  forces,  that  it  is  necessary  to 
lay  u'^der  tribute  a  wide  range  of  nature ;  and  fruits  and  roots 
and  "^rain,  beasts  of  the  field,  fowls  of  the  air,  and  fish  of  the  sea, 
juic  s  and  spices  and  flavors,  all  bring  their  contributions  to  the 
perfection  of  the  human  animal,  and  the  harmony  of  its  functions. 

4.  A  mind  that  surrenders  itself  to  a  single  idea  becomes 
essentially  insane.  I  know  a  man  who  has  dwelt  so  long  upon 
the  subject  of  a  vegetable  diet,  that  it  has  finally  taken  possession 
of  him.  It  is  now  of  such  importance  in  his  eyes  that  every 
other  subject  is  thrown  out  of  its  legitimate  relations  to  him.  It 
is  the  constant  theme  of  his  thought — the  study  of  his  life.  He 
questions  the  properties  and  quantities  of  every  mouthfu;  that 
passes  his  lips,  and  watches  its  effects  upon  him.  He  reads 
upon  this  subject  everything  he  can  lay  his  hands  on.  He 
talks  upon  it  with  every  man  he  meets. 

5.  He  has  ransacked  the  whole  Bible  for  support  to  his 
theories  ;  and  the  man  really  believes  that  the  eternal  salvation  of 
the  human  race  hinges  upon  a  change  of  diet.  It  has  become  a 
standard  by  which  to  decide  the  validity  of  all  other  truth.  If 
he  did  not  believe  that  the  Bible  was  on  his  side  of  the  question, 
he  would  discard  the  Bible.  Experiments  or  opinions  that  make 
against  his  faith  are  either  contemptuously  rejected  or  ingeniously 


164  SANDERS       UNION     SERIES. 

explained  away.  Now  this  man's  mind  is  not  only  reduced  to 
the  size  of  his  idea,  and  assimilated  to  its  character,  but  it  has 
lost  its  soundness.     His  reason  is  disordered. 

6.  His  judgment  is  perverted — depraved.  He  sees  things  in 
unjust  and  illegitimate  relations.  The  subject  that  absorbs  him 
has  grown  out  of  proper  proportions,  and  all  other  subjects  iiave 
shrunk  away  from  it.  I  know  another  man — a  man  of  fine 
powers — who  is  just  as  much  absorbed  by  the  subject  of  ventila^ 
tion  ;  and  though  both  of  these  men  are  regarded  by  the  com- 
munity as  of  sound  mind,  I  think  they  are  demonstrably  insane. 

7.  If  we  rise  into  larger  fields,  we  shall  find  more  notable 
demonstration  of  the  starving  effect  of  the  entertainment  of  a 
single  idea.  Scattered  throughout  the  country  we  shall  find 
men  who  have  devoted  themselves  to  the  cause  of  temperance, 
or  abstinence  from  intoxicating  liquors.  Here  is  a  grand,  a 
humane,  a  most  worthy  and  important  cause  ;  yet  temperance  as 
an  idea  is  not  enough  to  furnish  food  for  a  human  soul.  Some 
of  these  men  have  only  room  in  them  for  one  idea,  and,  so  far 
as  they  are  concerned,  it  might  as  well  be  temperance  as  any- 
thing, though  it  is  bad  for  the  cause  ;  but  the  majority  of  thera 
were,  at  starting,  men  of  generous  instincts,  a  quick  sense  of  that 
which  is  pure  and  true,  and  a  genuine  love  of  mankind. 

8.  They  dwelt  upon  their  idea — they  lived  upon  it  for  a  few 
years — and  then  they  "showed  their  keeping."  If  I  should 
wish  to  find  a  narrow-minded,  uncharitable,  bigoted  soul,  in  the 
smallest  possible  space  of  time,  I  would  look  among  those  who 
have  made  temperance  the  specialty  of  their  lives — not  because 
temperance  is  bad,  but  because  one  idea  is  bad;  and  the  men 
afflicted  by  this  particular  idea  are  numerous  and  notorious. 

9.  They  have  no  faith  in  any  man  who  does  not  believe  ex- 
actly as  they  do.  They  accuse  every  man  of  unworthy  motives 
who  opposes  them.     They  permit  no  liberty  of  individual  judg- 

nent  and  no  range  of  opinion  ;  and  when  they  get  a  chance, 
they  drive  legislation  into  the  most  absurd  and  harmful  extremes 
Men  of  one  idea  are  always  extremists,  and  extremists  are  always 
nuisances.  I  might  truthfully  add  that  an  extremist  is  never  a 
man  of  sound  mind. 

10.  The  whole  tribe  of  professional  agitators  and  mis-called 


RHETORICAL     READER.  165 

reformers  are  men  of  one  idea.  That  these  men  do  good,  some- 
times directly  and  frequently  indirectly,  I  do  not  deny  ;  and  it 
is  equally  evident  that  they  do  a  great  deal  of  harm,  the  worst 
of  which,  perhaps,  falls  upon  themselves.  Like  the  charge  of  a 
cannon,  they  do  damage  to  an  enemy's  fortifications,  but  they 
burn  up  the  powder  there  is  in  them,  and  lose  the  ball.  Like 
blind  old  Samson,  they  may  prostrate  the  pillars  of  a  great 
vviong,  but  they  crush  themselves  and  the  Philistines  together 
rie  greatest  and  truest  reformer  that  ever  lived  was  Jesus  Christ ; 
hut  ah  !  the  difference  between  his  broad  aims,  universal  sym- 
pathies, and  overflowing  love,  and  the  malignant  spirit  that 
movec  those  who  angrily  beat  themselves  to  death  against  an 
instituted  wrong  ! 

11.  If  a  man  undertake  to  live  upon  a  single  idea,  it  really 
makes  very  little  difference  to  him  whether  that  idea  be  a  good 
or  a  bad  one.  A  man  may  as  well  get  scurvy  on  beans  as  beef. 
1  suppose  a  diet  of  potatoes  would  be  quite  as  likely  to  support 
life  comfortably  as  a  diet  of  peaches.  It  is  because  the  human 
6Cn\\  cannot  live  upon  one  thing  alone,  but  demands  participation 
in  every  expression  of  the  life  of  God,  that  it  will  dwarf  and  i 
starve  upon  even  the  grandest  and  most  divine  idea. 

12.  This  selection  of  a  single  idea  from  the  great  world  of 
ideas  to  which  the  mind  is  vitally  related,  and  making  it  food 
and  drink,  and  motive  and  pivotal  point  of  action,  and  supreme 
object  of  devotion,  is  mental  and  moral  suicide.  It  makes  that 
a  despotic  king  which  should  be  a  tributary  subject.  It  enslaves 
the  soul  to  a  base  partisanship.  It  is  right  to  make  money,  and 
it  is  right  to  be  rich  when  wealth  is  won  legitimately  ;  but  when 
money  becomes  the  supreme  object  of  a  man's  life,  the  soul  starves 
as  rapidly  as  the  coffers  are  filled.  It  is  right  to  be  a  temper- 
ance man  and  an  anti-slavery  man,  and  an  advocate  of  any  special 
Christian  reform  ;  but  the  effect  of  adopting  any  one  of  theie 
reforms  as  the  supreme  object  of  a  man's  pursuit,  never  fails  toi 
belittle  him. 

13.  One  of  the  most  pitiable  objects  the  world  contains  is  a 
man  of  generous  natural  impulses  grown  sour,  impatient,  bitter, 
abusive,  uncharitable,  and  ungracious,  by  devotion  to  one  idea, 
and  the  failure  to  impress  it  upon  the  world  with  the  strength 


166  SANDERS       UNION     SERIES. 

by  which  it  possesses  himself.  Many  of  these  fondly  hug  the 
delusion  to  themselves  that  they  are  martyrs,  when,  in  fact,  they 
are  only  suicides.  Many  of  these  look  forward  to  the  day  when 
posterity  will  canonize  them,  and  lift  them  to  the  glory  of  those 
who  were  not  received  by  their  age  because  they  were  in  advance 
of  their  age.  So  they  regard  with  contempt  the  pigmy  world, 
wrap  the  mantles  of  their  mortified  pride  about  them,  and  lie 
own  in  a  delusive  dream  of  immortality. 

14.  Whether  the  effect  of  devotion  to  a  single  idea  be  disas- 
trous or  otherwise  to  the  devotees,  nothing  in  all  history  is  bet- 
ter proved — nothing  in  all  philosophy  is  more  clearly  demonstra- 
ble— than  the  fact  that  it  is  a  damage  to  the  idea.  If  I  wished 
to  disgust  a  community  with  any  special  idea,  I  would  set  a  man 
talking  about  it  and  advocating  it,  who  would  talk  of  nothing 
else.  If  I  wished  to  ruin  a  cause  utterly,  I  would  submit  it  to 
the  advocacy  of  one  who  would  thrust  it  into  every  man's  face, 
who  would  make  every  other  cause  subordinate  to  it,  who  would 
refuse  to  see  any  objections  to  it,  who  would  accuse  all  opponents 
of  unworthy  motives,  and  who  would  thus  exhibit  his  absolute 
slavery  to  it.  Men  have  an  instinct  which  tells  them  that  such 
people  as  these  are  not  trustworthy — that  their  sentiments  and 
opinions  are  as  valueless  as  those  of  children. 

15.  We  have  only  to  learn  that  a  man  can  see  nothing  but 
his  pet  idea,  and  is  really  in  its  possession,  to  lose  all  confidence 
in  his  judgment.  When  in  a  court  of  justice  a  man  testifies 
upon  a  point  that  touches  his  personal  interests  or  feelings  or 
relations,  we  say  that  his  testimony  is  not  valuable — not  reliable. 
It  decides  nothing  for  us.  We  say  that  the  evidence  does  not 
come  from  the  proper  source.  We  do  not  expect  candor  from 
him,  for  we  perceive  that  his  interests  are  too  deeply  involved  to 
allow  sound  judgment  and  utterly  truthful  expression.     It  is 

recisely  thus  with  all  professional  agitators  and  reformers— all 
evotees  of  single  ideas.  They  are  personally  so  intimately  con- 
ected  with  their  idea — have  been  so  enslaved  by  their    dea— 

are  so  interested  in  its  prosperity — that  they  are  not  competent 

to  testify  with  relation  to  it. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  167 


EXERCISE  XXXVIII. 


Brtan  Waller  Procter,  distinguished  as  the  author  of  some  admirable 
Bongs  and  other  writings,  was  born  in  the  year  1790.     He  is  better  known ' 
under  the  assumed  name  of  Barrt  Cornwall,  which  is  merely  an  anagram 
formed  by  transposing  the  letters  of  his  real  name. 

IMAGINATION. 

PROCTER. 

1.  Imagination  diflfers  from  Fancy,  inasmuch  as  it  does  by  a 
single  effort  what  the  latter  effects  by  deliberate  comparison. 
Generally  speaking,  imagination  deals  with  the  passions  and  the 
higher  moods  of  the  mind.  It  is  the  fiercer  and  more  potent 
spirit ;  and  the  images  are  flung  out  of  its  burning  grasp,  as  it 
were  molten,  and  massed  together.  It  is  a  complex  power, 
including  those  faculties  which  are  called  by  metaphysicians, 
Conception,  Abstraction,  and  Judgment.  It  is  the  genius  of 
personification.  It  concentrates  the  many  into  the  one,  coloring 
and  investing  its  own  complex  creation  with  the  attributes  of  all. 
It  multiplies  and  divides  and  remodels,  always  changing^  in  one 
respect  or  other,  the  literal  fact,  and  always  enriching  it,  when 
properly  exerted. 

2.  It  merges  ordinary  nature  and  literal  truth  in  the  brilliant 
atmosphere  which  it  exhales,  till  they  come  forth  like  the  illu- 
minations of  sunset,  which  were  nothing  but  clouds  before.  It 
acts  upon  all  things  drawn  within  its  range  j  sometimes  in  the 
creation  of  character,  and  sometimes  in  figures  of  speech  only. 
It  is  different  in  different  people ;  in  Shakspeare,  bright  and 
rapid  as  lightning, /M.sin^/  things  by  its  power;  in  Milton,  awful 
as  collected  thunder.  It  peoples  the  elements  with  fantastic 
fornix,  and  fills  the  earth  with  unearthly  heroism,  intellect,  and 
beauty. 

3.  It  is  the  parent  of  all  those  passionate  creations  which 
Shakspeare  has  bequeathed  to  us.  It  is  the  origin  of  tha< 
terrible  generation  of  Milton, — Sin,  and  the  shadowy  Death, 
RjMOR,  and  Discord  with  its  thousand  tongues,  Night  and 
CriAOSj  ancestors  of  Nature;  down  to  all  those  who  lie 


168  SANDERS'     UNION    SERIES. 

"  Under  the  boiling  ocean,  wrapped  in  chains'^ — 

of  all  phantasies  born  beneath  the  moon,  and  all  the  miracles 
of  dreams.     It  is  an  intense  and  burning  power,  and  comes 

"  Winged  with  red  lightning  and  impetuous  rage^^ — 

(^ which  line  is  itself  a  magnificent  instance  of  imagination) — 
End  is,  indeed,  a  concentration  of  the  intellect,  gathering  to- 
gether its  wandering  faculties,  and  bursting  forth  in  a  flood  of 
thought,  'till  the  apprehension  is  staggered  which  pursues  it. 

4.  The  exertion  of  this  faculty  is  apparent  in  every  page 
of  our  two  great  poets ;  from 

"  The  shout  that  tore  Hell's  concave," 

to  the  ^^  care''  that  ^^  sate  on  the  faded  cheek"  of  Satan;  from 
the  wounds  of  Thammuz*  which  allured 

**  The  Syrian  damsels  to  lament  his  fate," 

to  those 

"  Thoughts  that  wander  through  eternity ;" 

from  the  curses  of  Lear  upon  his  daughters,  which 

«*  Stamp  wrinkles  in  her  brow  of  youth," 
to  Hamlet, 

*<  Benetted  round  with  villainies,^^ 

and  thousands  of  others  which  meet  us  at  every  opening  of  the 
leaves. 

*  Thammuz,  or  Tammuz,  was  a  Syrian  deity  for  whom  the  Hebrew 
Idolatresses  were  accustomed  to  hold  an  annual  lamentation.  Set 
Ezek.  viii.  14. 


EHETORICAL    READER.  169 


EXERCISE  XXXIX. 

Thomas  Noon  Talfocrd  is  an  eloquent  English  barrister,  and,  also,  a 
chaste,  clear  and  imaginative  writer.  "  He  is  the  author  of  two  classic 
plays,"  says  Chambers,  "Ion  and  The  Athenian  Captive,  remarkable  for  a 
gentle  beauty,  refinement  and  pathos." 

Henry  Brougham,  late  lord  chancellor  of  England,  the  subject  of  the 
following  sketch,  was  born  in  Edinburgh  in  September,  1778.  He  was  one 
of  the  founders  of  the  Edinburgh  Review,  was  for  twenty-five  years  one 
of  its  ablest  contributors,  and  is  even  now  one  of  the  most  remarkable  of 
lublic  men  in  England. 

SKETCH  OF  LORD  BROUGHAM. 

t.  NOON  TALFOUHrtw 

1.  True  it  is,  that  this  extraordinary  man,  who,  without  high 
birth,  splendid  fortune,  or  aristocratic  connection,  has,  by  mere 
intellectual  power,  become  the  parliamentary  leader  of  the 
whigs  of  England,  is,  at  last,  beginning  to  succeed  in  the  pro- 
fession he  has  condescended  to  follow. 

2.  But,  stupendous  as  his  abilities,  and  various  as  his  acqui- 
sitions are,  he  does  not  possess  that  one  presiding  faculty — 
imagination,  which,  as  it  concentrates  all  others,  chiefly  renders 
them  unavailing  for  inferior  uses.  Mr.  Brougham's  powers  are 
uot  thus  united  and  rendered  unwieldly  and  prodigious,  but 
remain  apart,  and  neither  assist  nor  impede  each  other.  The 
same  speech,  indeed,  may  give  scope  to  several  talents ;  w  lucid 
narration,  to  brilliant  wit,  to  irresistible  reasoning,  and  even  to 
heart-touching  pathos  j  but  these  will  be  found  in  parcels,  not 
blended  and  interfused  in  one  superhuman  burst  of  passionate 
eloquence.  The  single  power  in  which  he  excels  all  others  is 
sarcasm,  and  his  deepest  inspiration — scorn  ! 

3.  Hence  he  can  awaken  terror  and  shame  far  better  than  he 
can  melt,  agitate,  and  raise.  Animated  by  this  blasting  spirit, 
he  can  "  bare  the  mean  hearts"  which  "  lurk  beneath"  a  hun- 
dred "  stars,"  and  smite  a  majority  of  lordly  persecutors  into 
the  dust !    His  power  is  all  directed  to  the  practical  and  earthy 

^  6R 


170  SANDERS'     UNION    SERIES. 

It  is  rather  that  of  a  giant  than  a  magician, — of  Briareus  *  than 
of  Prospero.*  He  can  do  a  hundred  things  well,  and  almost  at 
once ;  but  he  cannot  do  the  one  highest  thing ;  he  cannot,  by  a 
single  touch,  reveal  the  hidden  treasures  of  the  soul,  and  astonish 
the  world  with  truth  and  beauty  unknown  till  disclosed  at  his 
bidding.  Over  his  vast  domain  he  ranges  with  amazing  activity, 
and  is  a  diflFerent  man  in  each  province  which  he  occupies. 

4.  He  is  not  one,  but  legion.  At  three  in  the  morning,  he 
will  make  a  reply  in  Parliament,  which  shall  blanch  the  cheeks 
and  appall  the  hearts  of  his  enemies ;  and,  at  half-past  nine,  he 
will  be  found  in  his  place  in  court,  working  out  a  case  in  which 
a  bill  of  five  pounds  is  disputed,  with  all  the  plodding  care  of  a 
most  laborious  junior.  This  multiplicity  of  avocation,  and 
division  of  talent,  suit  the  temper  of  his  constitution  and  mind. 

5.  Not  only  does  he  accomplish  a  greater  variety  of  purposes 
than  any  other  man, — not  only  does  he  give  anxious  attention 
to  every  petty  cause,  while  he  is  fighting  a  great  political  battle, 
and  weighing  the  relative  interests  of  nations — not  only  does  he 
write  an  article  for  the  Edinburgh  Review  while  contesting  a 
county,  and  prepare  complicated  arguments  on  Scotch  appeals, 
by  way  of  rest  from  his  generous  endeavors  to  educate  a  people 
— but  he  does  all  this  as  if  it  were  perfectly  natural  to  him,  in 
a  manner  so  unpretending  and  quiet,  that  a  stranger  would  think 
him  a  merry  gentleman,  who  had  nothing  to  do  but  enjoy  him- 
self and  fascinate  others. 

6.  The  fire  which  burns  in  the  tough  fibers  of  his  intellect, 
does  not  quicken  his  pulse,  or  kindle  his  blood  to  more  than  a 
genial  warmth.  He,  therefore,  is  one  man  in  the  senate,  another 
in  the  study,  another  in  a  committee-room,  and  anothei  in  a 
petty  cause ;  and,  consequently,  is  never  above  the  work  which 
he  has  to  perform. 

*  Bri  a-'re  us  was  a  fabled  giant  of  old,  who  is  rep  cited  to  have  had  a 
hundred  hands  ;  Prospero  is  the  rightful  Duke  of  Milan,  a  character  iu 
one  of  Shakspeare's  plays  [The  Tempest],  who  is  represented  as  having 
acquired  power  over  '^^ potent  spirits^'  to  make  them  obedient  to  his  will. 


RHETORICAL     READER.  171 


EXERCISE   XL. 

Demos'thenes,  the  greatest  of  the  Grecian  orators,  was  borii  at  Athens. 
Hi3  principal  orations,  called  "  Philippics,"  were  designed  to  incite  his  coun- 
trj'men  against  the  encroachments  of  Philip,  king  of  Macedon,  upon  the  lib- 
erties of  Greece.  After  the  death  of  Alexander  the  Great,  the  Athenians 
revolted,  but  were  subdued;  and  Demosthenes, to  avoid  falling  into  the  hands 
of  Autipater,  the  Macedonian  General,  took  poison,  b.  o.  322. 

Cher  so  nese',  or  Cher  so  ne''  bus  (Cherso,  land,  or  mainland,  an  1 
K<  su«,  an  island),  means,  literally,  a  land-island,  or  an  island  attached  to 
Me  mainland,  that  is,  a  peninsula.  There  were  several  places  so  called  bj 
the  ancients;  but  the  one  here  meant,  is  that  long,  narrow  strip  of  land 
running  out  in  a  southwesterly  direction  from  the  mainland  of  European 
Turkey,  between  the  Dardanelles  and  the  Gulf  of  Melas.  It  is  now 
called  the  peninsula  of  the  Dardanelles. 

This  Chersonese  had  been  ceded  by  its  sovereign  to  Athens ;  but 
Cardia,  one  of  the  principal  cities,  had  put  itself  under  the  protection 
of  Philip,  king  of  Macedon.  A  Grecian  general  had  been  sent  out  to 
plant  a  colony  in  the  peninsula.  He  regarded  Philip's  conduct  towards 
Cardia,  as  sufficient  to  justify  hostile  action  on  his  part,  although  he 
had  no  orders  to  that  effect.  He,  accordingly,  made  a  vigorous  attack ; 
relying  of  course  on  support  from  the  party  of  Demosthenes  at  home. 
The  opposite  party,  however,  or  Macedonian  party,  as  they  were  called, 
inveighed  bitterly  against  the  proceedings  of  the  general,  and  against 
all  who  favored  them,  as  being  an  infraction  of  the  peace  nominally 
subsisting  between  Athens  and  Macedon.  Hence  the  admirable  speech 
from  which  the  following  extract  is  taken. 

REPLY  TO  THE  PARTY  OF  PHILIP. 

DEMOSTHENES  {translated  by  Lord  BrotigJiam). 

1.  Whence  is  it,  after  all,  0  men  of  Athens,  that  Philip  is 
thus  openly  carrying  on  military  operations,  doing  acts  of  vio- 
lence, taking  towns,  and  yet  no  one  of  these  creatures  of  his 
ever  thinks  of  charging  him  with  committing  outrages,  or  even 
going  to  war  at  all,  while  the  whole  blame  of  beginning  hostili- 
ties is  cast  upon  those  who  are  for  resisting  such  violence,  and 
against  abandoning  everything  to  his  mercy  ?  I  can  tell  you 
the  reason  of  all  this  : — That  indignation  which  you  are  likely 
to  feel  when  you  suffer  by  the  war,  our  accusers  would  fain  turn 
oflF  upon  US  who  gave  you  the  sound  advice,  in  order  that  you 


-172  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES. 

may  condemn  us,  instead  of  punishing  Philip,  and  that  th«?m« 
selves  may  play  the  part  of  prosecutors  against  us,  instead  of 
paying  the  penalty  of  their  own  misconduct. 

2.  But  1  perceive  that  some  of  our  politicians  by  no  means 
lay  down  the  same  rule  for  themsehes  and  for  you.  They 
would  have  you  remain  (|uiet,  whatever  wrongs  are  done  to 
you  ;  while  they  can  never  remain  quiet  themselves,  though  no 
one  is  wronging  them  at  all.  Then,  whoever  rises,  is  sure  to 
^iint  me  with — ''  So  you  will  not  brm(j  forward  a  proposition 
for  war ;  you  will  not  venture  upon  tJutt,  timid  and  spiritless  as 
you  are?" 

3.  For  my  part,  self-confident,  and  forward,  and  shameless,  I 
am  not,  and  may  I  never  be  !  Yet  do  T  account  myself  by  a 
great  deal  more  courageous  than  those  whose  counsels  are  marked 
with  such  temerity.  He,  in  truth,  Athenians,  who,  regardless 
of  the  interests  of  the  country,  condemns,  confiscates,  rewards, 
impeaches,  by  no  means  proves  his  rourage  in  all  this;  for,  if 
he  insures  his  own  safety  by  such  speechos  and  such  counsels 
as  are  calculated  to  win  your  favor,  he  may  be  daring  with  very 
little  hazard. 

4.  But  he  who  for  your  good  oftentimes  thwarts  your  inclina- 
tions ;  who  n<5ver  speaks  to  gain  your  good  graces,  but  consults 
your  interest*  always ;  who,  should  he  recommend  some  course 
of  policy,  in  which  fortune  may  baffle  the  calculations  of  reason, 
yet  makes  himself  accountable  for  the  event — he  is  indeed 
courageous — an  invaluable  citizen  he  truly  is;  not  like  those 
who  to  an  ephemeral  popularity  have  sacrificed  the  highest 
itt crests  of  their  country — men  whom  I  am  so  far  from  wishing 
to  rival,  or  from  regarding  as  true  patriots,  that  were  I  called 
upon  to  declare  what  services  I  had  rendered  our  common 
oouutry,  although  I  have  to  tell,  Athenians,  of  naval  commands, 
and  public  shows,  of  supplies  raised  and  of  captives  ransomed, 
and  ther  passages  of  like  description,  to  none  of  them  all  would 
I  point  but  to  this  one  thing,  that  mij  policy  has  never  been 
like  theirs, 

5.  Able  I  may  be,  as  well  as  others,  to  impeach,  and  distri- 
bute, and  proscribe^  and  whatever  else  it  is  they  are  wont  to  do; 


RHETORICAL    READER.  178 

yet  on  none  of  these  grounds  did  I  ever  choose  to  take  my 
place,  or  rest  my  pretensions,  either  through  avarice  or  ambition. 
I  have  persevered  in  holding  that  language  which  lowers  me  in 
your  estimation  as  compared  with  others,  yet  which  must  greatly 
exalt  you,  so  you  will  only  listen  to  me.  Thus  much  to  have 
said,  may,  perhaps,  not  be  deemed  invidious. 

6.  Nor  do  I  conceive  that  I  should  be  acting  an  honest  part, 
were  I  to  devise  measures,  which,  while  they  raised  me  to  the 
first  rank  in  Athens,  sank  you  to  the  lowest  station  among  the 
Grreeks.  But  the  state  ought  to  be  exalted  by  the  counsels  of 
patriots,  and  it  is  the  duty  of  us  all  to  render,  not  the  most 
easy,  but  the  most  profitable  advice.  Towards  the  former,  our 
nature  is  of  itself  but  too  prone;  to  enforce  the  latter,  a  patriot's 
lessons  and  eloquence  are  required. 

7.  I  not  long  since  heard  some  one  talking  as  if  my  advice 
was  always  sound  enough,  but  words  were  all  I  gave  the  state  j 
whereas  it  wanted  deeds  and  actions.  Now  upon  tliis  point  1 
will  tell  you  what  I  think,  and  without  any  reserve.  I  do  not 
hold  it  to  be  the  province  of  those  who  advise  you,  to  do  any 
act  whatever  beyond  giving  you  sound  counsel ;  and  that  this 
is  a  correct  view  of  the  subject,  I  think  I  shall  easily  show 
You  remember  how  the  celebrated  Timotheus  harangued  you 
upon  the  necessity  of  succoring  the  Euboeans  and  saving  them 
from  the  Theban  yoke.  "  What !"  he  said,  "  do  you  deliberate 
how  to  proceed  and  what  to  do,  when  the  Thebans  are  actually 
in  the  island  ?  Men  of  Athens !  will  you  not  cover  the  sea 
with  your  ships  ?  Will  you  not  instantly  arise  and  fly  to  the 
Piraeus  ?*     Will  you  not  draw  down  your  vessels  to  the  beach  ?" 

8.  These  were  Timotheus'  words;  this  was  what  you  did; 
and,  from  both  concurring,  the  work  was  accomplished  But, 
had  he  given,  as,  indeed,  he  did,  the  best  of  counsels ;  if  you 
had  remained  immovable,  giving  ear  to  nothing  that  he  said  j 
would  any  of  those  things  have  been  performed  which  wore-  then 
done  for  the  country  ?  impossible !  And  so  it  is  with  what  I 
am  now  urging  and  what  others  may  urge.     For  deeds  you 

*  Pi  ree'  us  ia  the  name  of  the  celebrated  harbor  of  ancient  Athena 


174  SANDERS'     UNION    SERIES. 

must  rely  on  yourselves;  looking  to  statesmen  only  for  the 
capacity  to  give  you  salutary  counsels.  And  now  after  summing 
up  in  a  word  what  I  have  to  urge,  I  have  done.  I  tiy  jou 
should  levy  the  necessary  supplies,  should  maintain  the  aimy  on 
its  necessary  establishment — correcting  whatever  abuses  may  be 
found  to  exist,  but  not  disbanding  it  altogether  upon  the  first 
clamor  that  is  raised — should  send  ambassadors,  wherevei  they 
can  be  useful  in  informing,  admonishing,  or  anywhere  further 
ing  the  interests  of  this  country. 

9.  But  you  should,  beside  all  this,  bring  the  men  to  punish- 
ment  whose  administration  has  been  stained  with  corruption, 
and  consign  them  to  abhor'^nce  in  all  times  and  all  places,  to 
the  end  that  those  whose  conduct  has  been  temperate  and  pure, 
may  be  shown  to  have  consulted  at  once  their  own  interests  and 
yours.  If  such  shall  be  your  course,  and  you  no  longer  neglect 
your  most  important  concerns,  it  may  be  that  our  affairs  shall 
take  a  better  turn.  But,  if  you  sit  down  inactive  and  confining 
youi  exertions  to  acclamations  and  applause,  shrink  back  the 
moment  anything  is  required  to  be  done,  I  can  conceive  nc 
eloquence  which,  in  the  absence  of  every  necessary  effort  on 
your  part,  will  have  the  power  to  save  the  country. 


EXERCISE  XLI. 

Samuel  Tati.ob  Coleridob,  author  of  the  following  humorous  eflFusion,  vim 
me  of  the  most  distinguiBhsd  poets  and  nhilosophers  of  his  time.  He  was 
born  in  Devonshire  in  the  year  1772,  and  died  in  1834.  "The  literary  char- 
acter of  Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge,"  says  an  able  critic,  "  resembles  some  vast 
but  unfinished  palace :  all  is  gigantic,  beautiful,  and  rich  ;  but  nothing  is 
somplete,  nothing  compact.  He  was  all  his  days,  from  his  youth  to  his  death, 
laboring,  meditating,  projecting :  and  yet  all  that  he  left  us,  bears  a  painful 
character  of  fragmentariness  and  imperfection.  His  mind  was  eminently 
jreamy ;  he  was  deeply  tinged  with  that  incapacity  of  acting,  which  form* 
the  characteristic  of  the  German  intellect:  his  genius  was  multiform,  many- 
Bided  j  and  for  this  reason,  perhaps,  could  not  at  once  seize  upon  the  right 
point  of  view.  No  man,  probably,  ever  existed,  who  thought  more,  and  more 
intensely,  than  Coleridge ;  few  ever  possessed  a  vaster  treasury  of  learning 
and  knowledge ;  and  yet  how  little  has  he  given  us  !  or  rather  how  few  of  hia 
»rorks  are  in  any  way  worthy  of  the  undoubted  majesty  of  his  genius!" 


RHETORICAL    READER.  175 


ODE  TO  RAIN. 

8AHCEL   TATLOB  COLESIDGS. 


OOMIOSED  BEFORE  DAYLIGHT,  ON  THE  MORNING  APPOINTED  FOR  THE  DK» 
PARTTTRE  OF  A  VERY  WORTHY,  BUT  NOT  VERY  PLEASANT  VISITOR,  WHOM 
IT  ▼»  <  FEARED  THE  RAIN  MIGHT  DETAIN. 

I. 

1  know  it  is  dark ;  and  though  I  have  lain 
Awake,  as  I  guess,  an  hour  or  twain, 
T  have  not  once  opened  the  lids  of  my  eyes, 
But  lie  in  the  dark,  as  a  blind  man  lies. 

0  Rain,  that  I  lie  listening  to, 
You're  but  a  doleful  sound  at  best ; 

1  owe  you  little  thanks,  'tis  true. 
For  breaking  thus  my  needful  rest, 

Yet  if,  as  soon  as  it  is  light, 

0  Rain  !  you  will  but  take  your  flight, 

FU  neither  rail,  nor  malice  keep, 

Though  sick  and  sore  for  want  of  sleep, 

But  only  now  for  this  one  day, 

Do  po,  dear  Rain !  do  go  away ! 

n. 

0  Rain  !  with  your  dull  twofold  sound, 

The  clash  hard  by,  and  the  murmur  all  round, 

You  know,  if  you  know  aught,  that  we, 

Both  day  and  night,  but  ill  agree : 

For  days,  and  months,  and  almost  years, 

Have  limped  on  through  this  vale  of  tears, 

Since  body  of  mine  and  rainy  weather. 

Have  lived  on  easy  terms  together. 

Yet  if,  as  soon  as  it  is  light, 

0  Rain  !  you  will  but  take  your  flight, 

Though  you  should  come  again  to-morrow, 

And  bring  with  you  both  pain  and  sorrow ; 

Though  stomach  should  sicken  and  knees  should  swell, 

ni  nothing  speak  of  you  but  well. 


176  SANDERS'     UNION     SERIKS. 

But  only  now  for  this  one  day, 
Do  go,  dear  Rain  !  do  go  away ' 

III. 

Dear  Rain !  I  ne'er  refuse  to  say 
You're  a  good  creature  in  your  way. 
Nay,  I  could  write  a  book  myself, 
Would  fit  a  parson's  lower  shelf. 
Showing  how  very  good  you  are. 
What  then  ?  sometimes  it  must  he  fair. 
And,  if  sometimes,  wjiy  not  to-day  ? 
1)0  go,  dear  Rain  !  do  go  away. 

IV. 

Dear  Rain  !  if  I've  been  cold  and  shy, 

Take  no  ofFense  !  I'll  tell  you  why. 

A  dear  old  Friend  e'en  now  is  here, 

And  with  him  came  ray  sister  dear; 

After-  long  absence  now  first  met. 

Long  months  by  pain  and  grief  beset 

With  three  dear  Friends !  in  truth,  we  groui 

Impatiently  to  be  alone. 

We  three  you  mark  I  and  not  one  more ! 

The  strong  wish  makes  my  spirit  sore. 

We  have  so  much  to  talk  about, 

So  many  sad  things  to  let  out ; 

So  many  tears  in  our  eye-corners, 

Sitting  like  little  Jacky  Homers — 

In  short,  as  soon  as  it  is  day, 

Do  go,  dear  Rain  !  do  go  away  I 

V. 

And  this  I'll  swear  to  you,  dear  Rain! 
Whenever  you  shall  come  again, 
Re  you  as  dull  as  e'er  you  could ; 
(And,  by  the  by,  'tis  understood, 
You're  not  so  pleasant,  as  you're  good  5} 


RHETORICAL    READER.  177 

Yet,  k  nowing  well  your  worth  and  place, 

I'll  welcome  you  with  cheerful  face ; 

And  though  you  stay  a  week  or  more, 

Were  ten  times  duller  than  before ; 

Yet  with  kind  heart,  and  right  good  will,. 

I'll  sit  and  listen  to  you  still; 

Nor  should  you  go  away,  dear  Rain! 

Bat  only  now  for  this  one  day, 

Do  go,  dear  Rain  !  do  go  away ! 


EXERCISE  XLII. 

The  following  curious  piece,  found  in  an  old  English  collection,  was 
written  in  answer  to  the  question  once  put  to  the  author — "  Why  turnt 
your  hair  white?"  It  is  a  good  example  of  labored  alliteration,  that  is, 
the  style  in  which  the  same  sound  is  made  frequently  to  recur  in  the 
Bame  I'ne;  as  where  Milton  says — "J5ehemoth,  iiggest  6orn  of  earth." 

WHY  DOES  YOUR  HAIR  TURN  WHITE? 


Where  seething  sighs  and  sorrow  sobs 
Hath  slain  the  slips  that  nature  set; 
And  scalding  showers  with  stony  throbs, 
The  kindly  sap  from  them  hath  /e^,* 
What  wonder,  then,  though  that  you  see, 
Unon  my  head,  white  hairs  to  be  ? 

II. 

Where  thought  hath  thrilled,  and  thrown  his  spears, 
To  hurt  the  heart  that  harmeth  him  not ; 
And  groaning  grief  hath  ground  forth  tears, 
Mine  eye  to  stain,  my  face  to  spot : 
What  wonder,  then,  though  that  you  see, 
Upon  my  head,  white  hairs  to  be  ? 

*  Fetch,  or  bring  out.     The  word  is  obsolete 
8*  R 


1/8  SANDERS'     UNION    SERIEb 

III. 

Where  pinching  pain  himself  has  placed, 
There  peace  with  pleasures  were  possessed : 
And,  where  the  walls  of  wealth  lie  waste, 
And  poverty  in  them  is  pressed; 
What  wonder,  then,  though  that  you  see, 
Upon  my  head,  white  hairs  to  be  ? 

•IV. 
Where  wretched  woe  will  weave  her  web, 
Where  care  the  clue  can  catch,  and  dust: 
And  floods  of  joy  are  fallen  to  ebb, 
So  low,  that  life  may  not  long  last ; 
What  wonder,  then,  though  that  you  aee, 
Upon  my  head,  white  hairs  to  be  ? 

V. 

These  hairs  of  age  are  messengers 
Which  bid  me  fast,  repent,  and  pray; 
They  be  of  death  the  harbingers, 
That  doth  prepare  and  dress  the  way; 
Wherefore  I  joy  that  you  may  see. 
Upon  my  head,  such  hairs  to  be. 

VI. 

They  be  the  lines  that  lead  the  length, 

How  far  my  race  is  yet  to  run : 

They  show  my  youth  is  fled  with  strength, 

And  how  old  age  is  weak  begun : 

The  which  I  feel^  and  you  maj  see. 

Upon  my  head,  such  lines  to  be. 

VII. 

They  be  the  strings  of  sober  sound, 
Whose  music  is  harmonical : 
Their  tunes  declare  what  time  from  ground 
I  came,  and  how  thereto  I  shall : 


RHETORICAL    READER.  179 

Wherefore  I  joy  that  you  may  see, 
Upon  my  head,  such  strings  to  be. 

VITI. 

God  grant  to  those  that  white  hairs  have. 
No  woHe  them  take  than  I  have  meant . 
That,  after  they  be  laid  in  grave, 
Their  souls  may  joy  their  lives  well  spent  • 
Grod  grant  likewise  that  you  may  see, 
Upon  your  head,  such  hairs  to  be. 


EXERCISE  XLIII. 

Epitaph  is  from  the  Greek  (Epi,  upon,  and  Taphos,  tomb),  and  signi- 
fies what  is  written  on  a  tomb,  that  is,  a  monumental  inscription.  It  is 
usually  very  brief.  Its  general  tone  is  serious.  But  often  it  has  been 
made  the  vehicle  of  wit,  humor,  and  satire,  and  not  seldom  the  channel 
of  gross  flattery  or  slander. 

EPITAPHS. 

SAMUEL  J0H:»8CN. 

1.  An  epitaph,  as  the  word  itself  implies,  is  an  inscription  on 
the  tomb,  and  in  its  most  extensive  import  may  admit  indis- 
criminately satire  or  praise.  But,  as  malice  has  seldom  produced 
monuments  of  defamation,  and  the  tombs  hitherto  raised  have 
been  the  work  of  friendship  and  benevolence,  custom  has  con- 
tracted the  original  latitude  of  the  word,  so  that  it  signifies,  in 
the  general  acceptation,  an  inscription  engraven  on  a  tomb  in 
honor  of  the  person  deceased. 

2.  As  honors  are  paid  to  the  dead  in  order  to  incite  others  to 
the  imitation  of  their  excellencies,  the  principal  intention  of 
epitaphs  is  to  perpetuate  the  examples  of  virtue,  that  the  tomb 
of  a  good  man  may  supply  the  want  of  his  presence,  and  vene- 
ration for  his  memory  produce  the  same  efibct  as  the  observation 
of  his  life.  Thosc  epitaphs  are,  therefore,  the  most  perfect, 
which  set  virtue  in  the  strongest  light,  and  are  best  adapted  to 
exalt  the  reader's  ideas  and  rouse  his  emulation. 


180  SANDERS'    UNION     SERIES. 

3.  The  best  subject  for  epitaphs  is  private  virtue ;  virta« 
exerted  in  the  same  circumstances  in  which  the  bulk  of  man- 
kind are  placed,  and  which,  therefore,  may  admit  of  many  imita- 
i^rs.  He  that  has  delivered  his  country  from  oppression,  or 
freed  the  world  from  ignorance  and  error,  can  excite  the  emula- 
tion of  a  very  small  number;  but  he  that  has  repelled  the 
temptations  of  poverty,  and  disdained  to  free  himself  from  dis- 
tress at  the  expense  of  his  virtue,  may  animate  multitude^,  by 
his  example,  to  the  same  firmness  of  heart  and  steadiness  of 
rcfcolution. 


ON  THE  COUNTESS  OP  PEMBROKE. 

BXH  JORBOIf. 

Underneath  this  sable  hearse 
Lies  the  subject  of  all  verse : 
Sidney's  sister,  Pembroke's  mother. 
Death,  ere  thou  canst  find  another, 
Good,  and  fair,  and  wise  as  she, 
Time  shall  throw  a  dart  at  thee. 

II. 

ON  A  LADY  FAMED  FOR  HER  CAPRICE. 

BOBERT  BOSm. 

Here  lies,  now  a  prey  to  insulting  neglect. 
What  once  was  a  butterfly,  gay  in  life's  beam : 
Want  only  of  wisdom  denied  her  respect, 
Want  only  of  goodness  denied  her  esteem. 

III. 

COLERIDGE  ON  HIMSELF. 

8.  t.  omjxnax. 

Stop,  Christian  passer-by.  stop,  child  of  God ! 

And  read  with  gentle  breast.     Beneath  this  sod 

A  poet  lies,  or  that  which  once  seemed  he — 

Oh,  lift  a  thought  in  prayer  for  S.  T.  C. ! 

That  he,  who,  many  a  year,  with  toil  of  breath, 

Found  death  in  life,  may  here  find  life  in  death  1 


ftHETORICAI     READER.  181 

Mercy,  for  praise — to  be  forgiven,  for  fame, 

He  asked  and  hoped  through  Christ.     Do  thou  the  same 

IV. 
PUNNING  EPITAPH  ON  JOSEPH  BLACRETT.* 

BTBOa 

Stranger !  behold,  interred  together, 
The  souls  of  learning  and  of  leather. 
Poor  Joe  is  gone,  but  left  his  all: 
You'll  find  his  relics  in  a  stall. 
His  works  were  neat,  and  often  found 
Well  stitched,  and  with  morocco  bound. 
Tread  lightly — where  the  bard  is  laid, 
He  cannot  mend  the  shoe  he  made  j 
.    Yet  is  he  happy  in  his  hole. 
With  verse  immortal  as  his  sole. 
But  still  to  business  he  held  fast, 
And  stuck  to  Phoebus  to  the  last. 
Then  who  shall  say  so  good  a  fellow 
Was  only  "  leather  and  prunella  ?" 
For  character — he  did  not  lack  itj 
And,  if  he  did,  'twere  shame  to  "  Bla4;k-it.** 


EPITAPH  ON  SAMUEL  JOHNSON. 

WILLIAM  OOWMBL 

Here  Johnson  lies — a  sage  by  all  allowed, 

Whom  to  have  bred,  may  well  make  England  proud ; 

Whose  prose  was  eloquence,  by  wisdom  taught, 

The  graceful  vehicle  of  virtuous  thought  j 

Whose  verse  may  claim — grave,  masculine,  and  strong, 

Superior  praise  to  the  mere  poet's  song ; 

Who  many  a  noble  gift  from  heaven  possessed, 

And  faith  at  last,  alone  worth  all  the  rest. 

0  man,  immortal  by  a  double  prize, 

By  fame  on  earth — by  glory  in  the  skies  I 

*  Blackett  was  a  shoemaker  and  a  poet. 


SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES.' 

VI. 

ON  CHARLES  II. 

Here  lies  our  sovereign  lord  the  king, 
Whose  word  no  man  relies  on  j 

Who  never  said  a  foolish  thing, 
And  never  did  a  wise  one. 


VII. 
ON  Snt  ISAAO  NEWTON. 

Mature  and  nature's  laws  lay  hid  in  night: 
God  said — Let  Newton  be!  and  there  was  light. 

VIII. 
A  LIVING  author's  EPITAPH. 

From  life's  superfluous  cares  enlarged, 

His  debt  of  human  toil  discharged, 

Here  Cowley  lies,  beneath  this  shed, 

To  every  worldly  interest  dead  : 

With  decent  poverty  content  j 

His  hours  of  ease  not  idly  spent; 

To  fortune's  goods  a  foe  professed, 

And,  hating  wealth,  by  all  caressed. 

'Tis  sure  he's  dead  !  for  lo  !  how  small 

A  spot  of  earth  is  now  his  all ! 

Oh !  wish  that  earth  may  lightly  lay, 

And  every  care  be  far  away; 

Bring  flowers,  the  short-lived  roses  bring, 

To  life  deceased  fit  ofi'ering ! 

And  sweets  around  the  poet  strow, 

Whilst  yet  with  life  his  ashes  glow 


RHETORICAL    READER.  188 

IX. 
ON  A  MISER. 

Here  crumbling  lies  beneath  this  mold 
A  man  whose  sole  delight  was  gold ; 
Content  was  never  once  his  guest, 
Though  twice  ten  thousand  filled  his  chest; 
For  he,  poor  naan,  with  all  his  store, 
Died  in  great  want — the  want  of  more  I 


EXERCISE  XLIV. 
NOTHING  BUT  LEAVES. 

I. 

Nothing  but  leaves ;  the  spirit  grieves 

Over  a  wasted  life ; 
Sin  committed  while  conscience  slept, 
Promises  made  but  never  kept, 

Hatred,  battle,  and  strife  j 
Nothing  hut  leaves  I 

II. 

Nothing  but  leaves ;  no  garnered  sheavot 

Of  life's  fair,  ripened  grain ; 
Words,  idle  words,  for  earnest  deeds ; 
We  sow  our  seeds — lo  !  tares  and  weeds ; 

We  reap  with  toil  and  pain 
Nothing  but  leaves  I 

ni. 

Nothing  but  leaves ;  memory  weaves 

No  vail  to  screen  the  past : 
As  we  retrace  our  weary  way, 
Counting  each  lost  and  misspent  day— 

We  find,  sadly,  at  last. 
Nothing  but  leaves  ! 


184  SANDERS'     ONION    SERIES. 

IV. 

And  shall  we  meet  the  Master  so, 

Bearing  our  withered  leaves  ? 
The  Savior  looks  for  perfect  fruit, — 
"We  stand  before  him,  humbled,  mute ; 
Waiting  the  words  he  breathes,— 
^^ Nothing  but  leaves  .?"* 


EXERCISE  XLV. 

Lavrenob  Sterne  was  bom  in  Clonmol,  Ireland,  in  the  year  171 3.  He  died  in 
1768.  Though  a  member  of  the  clerical  profession,  he  was  by  no  means  exemplary 
in  walk  and  conversation.  As  a  writer,  however,  he  was  not  without  extra- 
ordinary claims  to  distinction.  He  excelled  in  the  delineation  of  comic  char- 
acter, in  coarse,  and  often  vulgar  humor,  in  occiiaional  touches  of  pure  and 
tender  sentiment,  and  in  the  command  of  a  style  and  diction  powerful  to 
interest  the  fancy  and  move  the  heart.  The  following  is  a  specimen  in  bin 
best  manner. 

THE  STORY  OF  LE  FEVRB. 

8TERITX. 

1.  It  was  some  time  in  the  summer  of  that  year  in  which 
Dendermond  was  taken  by  the  allies,  which  was  about  seven 
years  before  my  father  came  into  the  country,  and  about  as 
many,  after  the  time,  that  my  uncle  Toby  and  Trim  had  privately 
decamped  from  my  father's  house  in  town,  in  order  to  lay  some 
of  the  finest  sieges  to  some  of  the  finest  fortified  cities  in  Europe, 
when  my  uncle  Toby  was  one  evening  getting  his  supper,  with 
Trim  sitting  behind  him  at  a  small  sideboard,  I  say  sitting,  for 
in  consideration  of  the  corporal's  lame  knee,  (which  sometimes 
gave  him  exquisite  pain)  when  my  uncle  Toby  dined  or  supped 
alono,  he  would  never  suffer  the  corporal  to  stand;  and  the 
poor  fellow's  veneration  for  his  master  was  such,  that,  with  a 
proper  artillery,  my  uncle  Toby  could  have  taken  Dendermond 
itself  with  less  trouble  than  he  was  able  to  gain  this  point  over 

*  He  found  nothing  thereon  but  leaves.     Matt.  chap.  xxi.  v.  19. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  185 

him  ;  for  many  a  time,  when  my  uncle  Toby  supposed  the  cnr- 
poral's  leg  was  at  rest,  he  would  look  back  and  detect  him  stand- 
ing behind  him  with  the  most  dutiful  respect.  This  bred  more 
little  squabbles  betwixt  them  than  all  other  causes  for  five-and- 
twenty  years  together ;  but  this  is  neither  here  nor  there — why 
do  I  mention  it  ?     Ask  my  pen — it  governs  me — I  govern  not  it. 

2.  He  was  one  evening  sitting  thus  at  his  supper,  when  tl  e 
landlord  of  a  little  inn  in  the  village  came  into  the  parlor  with 
in  empty  vial  in  his  hand,  to  beg  a  glass  or  two  of  sack.  'Tis 
r)r  a  poor  gentleman — I  think  of  the  army,  said  the  'andlord, 
who  has  been  taken  ill  at  my  house  four  days  ago,  and  has  never 
held  up  his  head  since,  or  had  a  desire  to  taste  anything,  till 
just  now,  that  he  has  a  fancy  for  a  glass  of  sack  and  a  thin 
toast;  I  think,  says  he,  taking  his  hand  from  his  forehead,  it 
would  comfort  me.  If  I  could  neither  beg,  borrow,  nor  buy 
such  a  thing,  added  the  landlord,  I  would  almost  steal  it  for  the 
poor  gentleman,  he  is  so  ill.  I  hope  in  Grod,  he  will  still  mend, 
continued  he ;  we  are  all  of  us  concerned  for  him. 

3.  Thou  art  a  good-natured  soul,  I  will  answer  for  thee,  cried 
my  uncle  Toby;  and  thou  shalt  drink  the  poor  gentleman's 
health  in  a  glass  of  sack  thyself;  and  take  a  couple  of  bottles 
with  my  service,  and  tell  him  he  is  heartily  welcome  to  them, 
and  to  a  dozen  more,  if  they  will  do  him  good.  Though  I  am 
persuaded,  said  my  uncle  Toby,  as  the  landlord  shut  the  door, 
he  is  a  very  compassionate  fellow,  Trim,  yet  I  cannot  help  enter- 
taining a  high  opinion  of  his  guest  too ;  there  must  be  some- 
thing more  than  common  in  him,  that,  in  so  short  a  time,  should 
win  so  much  upon  the  aflfections  of  his  host.  And  of  his  whole 
family,  added  the  corporal;  for  they  are  all  concerned  for  him. 
Step  after  him,  said  my  uncle  Toby ;  do.  Trim ;  and  ask  if  he 
knows  his  name. 

4.  I  have  quite  forgot  it,  truly,  said  the  landlord,  coming 
back  into  the  parlor  with  the  corporal ;  but  I  can  ask  his  son 
again.  Has  he  a  son  with  him,  then?  said  my  uncle  Toby. 
A  boy,  replied  the  landlord,  of  about  eleven  or  twelve  years  of 
age ;  but  the  poor  creature  has  tasted  almost  as  little  as  bis 
father;  he  does  nothing  but  mourn  and  lament  for  him  night 


186  SANDERS       UNION     SERIES. 

and  day  He  has  not  stirred  from  the  bedside  these  two  days. 
My  uncle  Toby  laid  down  his  knife  and  fork,  and  thrust  his 
plate  from  before  him,  as  the  landlord  gave  him  the  account; 
and  Trim,  without  being  ordered,  took  it  away,  without  saying 
one  word,  and,  in  a  few  minutes  after,  brought  him  his  pipe  and 
tobacco. 

5.  Stay  in  the  room  a  little,  said  my  uncle  Toby.  Trim  !  said 
my  uncle  Toby,  after  he  lighted  his  pipe,  and  smoked  about  a 
dozen  whiffs.  Trim  came  in  front  of  his  master,  and  made  his 
^tow.  My  uncle  Toby  smoked  on,  and  said  no  more.  Corporal! 
aaid  my  uncle  Toby.  The  corporal  made  his  bow.  My  uncle 
Toby  proceeded  no  further,  but  finished  his  pipe. 

6.  Trim,  said  my  uncle  Toby,  I  have  a  project  in  my  head, 
as  it  is  a  bad  night,  of  wrapping  myself  up  warm  in  my  roque- 
laur,*  and  paying  a  visit  to  this  poor  gentleman.  Your  honor's 
roquelaur,  replied  the  corporal,  has  not  once  been  had  on  since 
the  night  before  your  honor  received  your  wound,  when  we 
mounted  guard  in  the  trenches  before  the  gate  of  St.  Nicholas. 
And  besides,  it  is  so  cold  and  rainy  a  night,  that  what  with  the 
roquelaur,  and  what  with  the  weather,  'twill  be  enough  to  give 
your  honor  your  death,  and  bring  on  your  honor's  torment  in 
your  back.  I  fear  so,  replied  my  uncle  Toby;  but  I  am  not  at 
rest  in  my  mind.  Trim,  since  the  account  the  landlord  has  given 
me.  I  wish  I  had  not  known  so  much  of  this  affair,  added  my 
uncle  Toby,  or  that  I  had  known  more  of  it.  How  shall  we 
manage  it?  Leave  it,  an'tf  please  your  honor,  to  me,  quoth  the 
corporal.  I'll  take  my  hat  and  stick,  and  go  to  the  house  and 
reconnoiter,  and  act  accordingly;  and  I  will  bring  your  honor 
a  full  account  in  an  hour.  Thou  shalt  go,  Trim,  said  my  uncle 
Toby;  and  here's  a  shilling  for  thee  to  drink  with  his  servant. 

7.  It  was  not  till  my  uncle  Toby  had  knocked  the  ashes  out  3f 
his  third  pipe  that  Corporal  Trim  returned  from  the  inn,  and 
gave  him  the  following  account.  I  despaired  at  first,  said  the 
corporal,  of  being  able  to  bring  back  your  honor  any  kind  of 

*  Roquelaur,  (rok^  e  lor)  a  cloak. 

f  An't  is  old  English  for  i/'t,  that  is,  if  it. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  187 

iutelligence  concerning  the  poor  sick  lieutenant.  Is  he  in  the 
army,  then  ?  said  my  uncle  Toby.  He  is,  said  the  corporal. 
And  in  what  regiment?  said  my  uncle  Toby.  I'll  tell  your 
honor,  replied  the  corporal,  everything  straightforwards  as  I 
learned  it.  Then,  Trim,  I'll  fill  another  pipe,  said  my  uncle 
Toby,  and  not  interrupt  thee  till  thou  hast  done;  so  sit  down  at 
thy  ease.  Trim,  in  the  window  seat,  and  begin  thy  story  again. 
Th-s  corporal  made  his  old  bow,  which  generally  spoke  as  plain 
as  a  bow  could  speak  it — Your  honor  is  good.  And  having  done 
that,  he  sat  down,  as  he  was  ordered;  and  began  the  story  tc 
my  uncle  Toby  over  again  in  pretty  near  the  same  words. 

8.  I  despaired  at  first,  said  the  corporal,  of  being  able  to  bring 
back  any  intelligence  to  your  honor  about  the  lieutenant  and 
his  son;  for,  when  I  asked  where  his  servant  was,  from  whom  I 
made  myself  sure  of  knowing  everything  which  was  proper  to 
be  asked — That's  a  right  distinction.  Trim,  said  my  uncle  Toby 
— I  was  answered,  an'  please  your  honor,  that  he  had  no  servant 
with  him ;  that  he  had  come  to  the  inn  with  hired  horses,  which, 
upon  finding  himself  unable  to  proceed,  (to  join,  I  suppose,  the 
regiment)  he  had  dismissed  the  morning  after  he  came.  If  I 
get  better,  my  dear,  said  he,  as  he  gave  his  purse  to  his  son  to 
pay  the  man,  we  can  hire  horses  from  hence.  But,  alas !  the 
poor  gentleman  will  never  get  from  hence,  said  the  landlady  to 
me ;  for  I  heard  the  deathwatch  all  night  long :  and,  when  he 
dies,  the  youth,  his  son,  will  certainly  die  with  him;  for  he  is 
broken-hearted  already. 

9.  I  was  hearing  this  account,  continued  the  corporal,  when 
the  youth  came  into  the  kitchen,  to  order  the  thin  toast  the 
landlord  spoke  of.  But  I  will  do  it  for  my  father  myself,  said 
the  youth.  Pray,  let  me  save  you  the  trouble,  young  gentle- 
man, said  I,  taking  up  a  fork  for  the  purpose,  and  offering  him 
my  chair  to  sit  down  upon  by  the  fire,  whilst  I  did  it.  I  believe, 
sir,  said  he,  very  modestly,  I  can  please  him  best  myself  I  am 
sure,  said  I,  his  honor  will  not  like  the  toast  the  worse  for  being 
toasted  by  an  old  soldier.  The  youth  took  hold  of  my  hand, 
and  instantly  burst  into  tears.  Poor  youth  !  said  my  uncle 
Toby ;  he  ha&  been  bred  up  from  an  infant  in  the  army,  and  the 


188  SANUERS'     UNION     SERIES. 

name  of  a  soldier,  Trim,  sounded  in  his  ears  like  the  name  ot  a 
friend ;  I  wish  I  had  him  here. 

10.  I  never,  in  the  longest  march,  said  the  corporal,  ha-d  so 
great  a  mind  to  my  dinner,  as  I  had  to  cry  with  him  for  com- 
pany. What  could  he  the  matter  with  me,  an'  please  your 
honor  ?  Nothing  in  the  world.  Trim,  said  my  uncle  Toby,  blow- 
ing his  nose ;  but  that  thou  art  a  good-natured  fellow.  When 
I  gave  him  the  toast,  continued  the  corporal,  I  thought  it  was 
proper  to  tell  him  I  was  Captain  Shandy's  servant,  and  that  youi 
honor,  though  a  stranger,  was  extremely  concerned  for  his  father; 
and  that,  if  there  was  anything  in  your  house  or  cellar — And 
thou  might'st  have  added  my  purse  too,  said  my  uncle  Toby — 
he  was  heartily  welcome  to  it.  He  made  a  very  low  bow,  which 
was  meant  to  your  honor ;  but  no  answer,  for  his  heart  was  full ; 
so  he  went  up  stairs  with  the  toast.  I  warrant  you,  my  dear, 
said  I,  as  I  opened  the  kitchen  door,  your  father  will  be  well 
again.  Mr.  Yorick's  curate  was  smoking  a  pipe  by  the  kitchen 
fire,  but  said  not  a  word,  good  or  bad,  to  comfort  the  youth.  1 
thought  it  wrong,  added  the  corporal.  I  think  so  too,  said  my 
uncle  Toby. 

11.  When  the  lieutenant  had  taken  his  glass  of  sack  and 
toast,  he  felt  himself  a  little  revived,  and  sent  down  into  the 
kitchen  to  let  me  know  that,  in  about  ten  minutes,  he  should  be 
glad  if  I  would  step  up  stairs.  I  believe,  said  the  landlord,  he 
is  going  to  say  his  prayers ;  for  there  was  a  book  laid  upon  the 
chair  by  his  bedside,  and,  as  I  shut  the  door,  I  saw  his  son  take 
up  a  cushion. 

12.  I  thought,  said  the  curate,  that  you  gentlemen  of  the 
army,  Mr.  Trim,  never  said  your  prayers  at  all.  I  heard  the 
poor  gentleman  say  his  prayers  last  night,  said  the  landlady, 
very  devoutly,  and  with  my  own  ears,  or  I  could  not  have 
believed  it.  Are  you  sure  of  it?  replied  the  curate.  A  soldier^ 
an'  please  your  reverence,  said  I,  prays  as  often  of  his  own 
accord  as  a  parson ;  and,  when  he  is  fighting  for  his  iing,  and 
for  his  own  life,  and  for  his  honor  too,  he  has  the  most  reason  to 
pray  to  God  of  any  one  in  the  whole  world.  'Twas  well  said 
of  thee.  Trim,  said  my  uncle  Toby.    But,  when  a  soldier,  said  f 


RHETORICAL    READER.  18£ 

an'  please  your  reverence,  has  been  standing  for  tweVe  htmra 
together  in  the  trenches  up  to  his  knees  in  cold  water,  or 
engaged,  said  I,  for  months  together  in  long  and  dangerous 
marches;  harassed,  perhaps,  in  his  rear  to-day;  harassing  others 
to-morro\\  ;  detached  here ;  countermanded  there ;  resting  this 
night  out  upon  his  arms;  benumbed  in  his  joints;  perhaps, 
without  straw  in  his  tent  to  kneel  on ;  he  must  say  his  prayers 
hov)  and  ivhe7i  he  can. 

13.  I  believe,  said  I — for  I  was  piqued,  quoth  the  corporal 
for  the  reputation  of  the  army — I  believe,  an'  please  your 
reverence,  said  I,  that  when  a  soldier  gets  time  to  pray,  he 
prays  as  heartily  as  a  parson,  though  not  with  all  his  fuss  and 
hypocrisy.  Thou  shouldst  not  have  said  that,  Trim,  said  my 
uncle  Toby ;  for  Grod  only  knows  who  is  a  hypocrite  and  who  is 
not.  At  the  great  and  general  review  of  us  all,  corporal,  at  the 
day  of  judgment,  and  not  till  then,  it  will  be  seen  who  has  done 
his  duties  in  this  world  and  who  has  not;  and  we  shall  be 
advanced.  Trim,  accordingly.  I  hope  we  shall,  said  Trim.  It 
is  in  the  Scripture,  said  my  uncle  Toby ;  and  I  will  show  it  thee 
to-morrow.  In  the  meantime,  we  may  depend  upon  it,  Trim, 
for  our  comfort,  said  my  uncle  Toby,  that  God  Almighty  is  so 
good  and  just  a  governor  of  the  world,  that,  if  we  have  but  done 
our  duties  in  it,  it  will  never  be  inquired  4nto  whether  we  have 
done  them  in  a  red  coat  or  a  black  one.  I  hope  not,  said  the 
corporal.  But  go  on.  Trim,  said  my  uncle  Toby,  with  thy 
story. 

14.  When  I  went  up,  continued  the  corporal,  into  the  lieu- 
tenant's room,  which  I  did  not  do  till  the  expiration  of  the  ten 
minutes,  he  was  lying  in  his  bed  with  his  head  raised  upon  his 
hand,  with  his  elbow  upon  the  pillow,  and  a  clean  white  cambric 
handkerchief  beside  it.  The  youth  was  just  stooping  down  to 
take  up  the  cushion,  upon  which  I  supposed  he  had  been 
kneeling ;  the  book  was  laid  upon  the  bed ;  and,  as  he  rose,  in 
taking  up  the  cushion  with  one  hand,  he  reached  out  his  other 
to  take  it  away  at  the  same  time.  Let  it  remain  there,  my  dear, 
said  the  lieutenant. 

15    He  did  not  offer  to  speak  to  me  till  I  had  walked  up 


190  SANDERS'     UNION     SERIES. 

close  to  his  bedside.  If  you  are  Captain  Shandy's  sonant,  &aid 
he,  you  must  present  my  thanks  to  your  master,  with  my  little 
boy's  thanks  along  with  them,  for  his  courtesy  to  me."  If  he 
was  of  Levens's,  said  the  lieutenant.  I  told  him  your  honor 
was.  Then,  said  he,  I  served  three  campaigns  with  him  in 
Flanders,  and  remember  him ;  but  'tis  most  likely,  as  I  had  not 
the  honor  of  any  acquaintance  with  him,  that  he  knows  nothing 
of  me.  You  will  tell  him,  however,  that  the  person  his  good- 
ature  I  as  laid  under  obligations  to  him,  is  one  Le  Fevre,  a 
lieutenant  in  Angus's.  But  he  knows  me  not,  said  he,  a  second 
time,  musing.  Possibly  he  may  my  story,  added  he.  Pray,  tell 
the  captain,  I  was  the  ensign  at  Breda,  whose  wife  was  most 
unfortunately  killed  with  a  musket  shot  as  she  lay  in  my  arms 
in  my  tent.  I  remember  the  story,  an't  please  your  honor,  said 
I,  very  well.  Do  you  so  ?  said  he,  wiping  his  eyes  with  his 
handkerchief,  then  well  may  I.  In  saying  this,  he  drew  a  little 
ring  out  of  his  bosom,  which  seemed  tied  with  a  black  ribbon 
about  his  neck,  and  kissed  it  twice.  Here,  Billy,  said  he. 
The  boy  flew  across  the  room  to  the  bedside,  and  falling  down 
upon  his  knee,  took  the  ring  in  his  hand,  and  kissed  it  too; 
then  kissed  his  father,  and  sat  down  upon  the  bed  and  wept. 

16.  I  wish,  said  my  uncle  Toby,  with  a  deep  sigh — I  wish, 
Trim,  I  was  asleep.  .  Your  honor,  replied  the  corporal,  is  too 
much  concerned.  Shall  I  pour  your  honor  out  a  glass  of  sack 
to  your  pipe  ?  Do,  Trim,  said  my  uncle  Toby.  I  remember, 
said  my  uncle  Toby,  sighing  again,  the  story  of  the  ensign  and 
his  wife,  with  a  circumstance  his  modesty  omitted;  and  par* 
ticularly  well  that  he,  as  well  as  she,  upon  some  account  or 
other,  I  forget  what,  was  universally  pitied  by  the  whole  regi- 
ment; but  finish  the  story  thou  art  upon.  'Tis  finished  alread/, 
said  the  corporal,  for  I  could  stay  no  longer;  so  wisl  ed  l.i^ 
honor  a  good  night.  Young  Le  Fevre  rose  from  oflf  the  bedj 
and  saw  me  to  the  bottom  of  the  stairs;  and,  as  we  went  down 
together,  told  me  they  had  come  from  Ireland,  and  were  on 
their  route  to  join  the  regiment  in  Flanders.  But,  alas !  said 
the  corporal,  the  lieutenant's  last  day's  march  is  over.  Then 
what  is  to  become  of  his  poor  boy  ?  cried  my  uncle  Toby. 


IIHETORICAL    HEADER.  191 

17.  It  was  to  my  uncle  Toby's  eternal  honor — though  I  tell 
it  only  for  the  sake  of  those,  who,  when  cooped  in  betwixt  a 
natural  and  a  positive  law,  know  not  for  their  souls  which  way 
m  the  world  to  turn  themselves — that,  notwithstanding  my 
uncle  Toby  was  warmly  engaged  at  that  time  in  carrying  on  thef 
siege  of  Dendermond,  parallel  with  the  allies,  who  pressed  theirs 
on  so  vigorously  that  they  scarce  allowed  him  time  to  get  his 
dinner — that,  nevertheless,  he  gave  up  Dendermond,  though  he 
had  already  made  a  lodgment  upon  the  counterscarp — and  bent 
his  whole  thoughts  towards  the  private  distresses  at  the  inn  j 
and,  except  that  he  ordered  the  garden  gate  to  be  bolted  up,  by 
which  he  might  be  said  to  have  turned  the  siege  of  Dender- 
mond into  a  blockade,  he  left  Dendermond  to  itself,  to  be 
relieved  or  not  by  the  French  king  as  the  French  king  thought 
good,  and  only  considered  how  he  himself  should  relieve  the 
poor  lieutenant  and  his  son.  That  kind  Being,  who  is  a  friend 
to  the  friendless,  shall  recompense  thee  for  this. 

18.  Thou  hast  left  this  matter  short,  said  my  uncle  Toby  to 
the  corporal,  as  he  was  putting  him  to  bed ;  and  I  will  tell  thee 
in  what.  Trim.  In  the  first  place,  when  thou  madst  an  offer  of 
my  services  to  Le  P^evre — as  sickness  and  traveling  are  both 
expensive,  and  thou  kuowest  he  was  but  a  poor  lieutenant,  with 
a  son  to  subsist  as  well  as  himself  out  of  his  pay — that  thou 
didst  not  make  an  offer  to  him  of  my  purse ;  because,  had  he 
stood  in  need,  thou  knowest,  Trim,  he  had  been  as  welcome  to 
it  as  myself.  Your  honor  knows,  said  the  corporal,  I  had  no 
orders.  True,  quoth  my  uncle  Toby,  thou  didst  very  right, 
Trim,  as  a  soldier,  but  certainly  very  wrong  as  a  man. 

19.  In  the  second  place,  for  which  indeed  thou  hast  the 
same  excuse,  continued  my  uncle  Toby,  when  thou  offer edst 
him  whatever  was  in  my  house,  thou  shouldst  have  offered  him 
my  \  ouse  too.  A  sick  brother  oflBcer  should  have  the  best 
quarters,  Trim;  and,  if  we  had  him  with  us,  we  could  tend  and 
look  to  him.  Thou  art  an  excellent  nurse  thyself.  Trim ;  and 
what  with  thy  care  of  him,  and  the  old  woman's  and  his  boy's, 
and  mine  together,  we  might  recruit  him  again  at  once,  and  set 


192  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES. 

him  upon  his  legs.     In  a  fortnight  or  three  weeks,  added  my 
uncle  Toby,  smiling,  he  might  march. 

20.  He  will  never  march,  an'  please  your  honor,  in  thia 
wo'.ld,  said  the  corporal.  He  will  march,  said  my  uncle  Toby, 
rising  up  from  the  side  of  the  bed  with  one  shoe  off.  An' 
please  your  honor,  said  the  corporal,  he  will  never  march  but  to 
his  grave.  He  shall  march,  cried  my  uncle  Toby,  marching 
the  foot  which  had  a  shoe  on,  though  without  advancing  an 
inch — he  shall  march  to  his  regiment.  He  cannot  stand  it. 
said  the  corporal.  He  shall  be  supported,  said  my  uncle  Toby. 
He'll  drop  at  last,  said  the  corporal;  and  what  will  become 
of  his  boy  ?  He  shall  not  drop,  said  my  uncle  Toby,  firmly 
A-well-o'-day,  do  what  we  can  for  him,  said  Trim,  maintaining 
his  point,  the  poor  soul  will  die.  He  shall  not  die,  with  an  oath, 
cried  my  uncle  Toby.  The  Accusing  Spirit,  which  flew  up  to 
heaven's  chancery  with  the  oath,  blushed  as  he  gave  it  in;  and 
the  Recording  Augel,  as  he  wrote  it  down,  dropped  a  tear  upon 
the  word,  and  blotted  it  out  for  ever. 

21.  My  uncle  Toby  went  to  his  bureau ;  put  his  purse  into 
his  breeches  pocket;  and  having  ordered  the  corporal  to  go 
early  in  the  morning  for  a  physician,  he  went  to  bed,  and  fell 
asleep.  The  sun  looked  bright  the  morning  after  to  every  eye 
in  the  village  but  Le  Fevre's  and  his  aiBicted  son's.  The  hand 
of  death  pressed  heavy  upon  his  eyelids,  and  hardly  could  the 
wheel  at  the  cistern  turn  round  its  circle,  when  my  uncle  Toby, 
who  had  risen  up  an  hour  before  his  wonted  time,  entered  the 
lieutenant's  room,  and,  without  preface  or  apology,  sat  himself 
down  upon  the  chair  by  the  bedside ;  and,  independently  of  all 
modes  and  customs,  opened  the  curtain  in  the  manner  an  old 
friend  and  brother  officer  would  have  done  it,  and  asked  liira 
how  he  did — how  he  had  rested  in  the  night — what  was  his 
complaint — where  was  his  pain — and  what  he  could  do  to  help 
him.  \nd,  without  giving  him  time  to  answer  any  one  of  the 
inquiries,  went  on  and  told  him  of  the  little  plan  which  he  had 
been  concerting  with  the  corporal  the  night  before  for  him. 
You  shall  go  home  directly,  Le  Fevre,  said  my  uncle  Toby,  to 
my  house,  and  we'll  send  for  a  doctor  to  see  what's  the  matter : 


RHETORICAL    READER.  193 

and  we'll  have  an  apothecary,  ana  the  corporal  shall  be  your 
nurse,  and  I'll  be  your  servant,  Le  Fevre. 

22.  There  was  a  frankness  in  my  uncle  Toby — not  the  effect 
of  familiarity,  but  the  cause  of  it — which  let  you  at  once  into 
his  soul,  Hfld  showed  you  the  goodness  of  his  nature;  to  this 
there  was  something  in  his  looks,  and  voice,  and  manner  super- 
added,  which  eternally  beckoned  to  the  unfortunate  to  come 
and  take  shelter  under  him ;  so  that  before  my  uncle  Toby  had 
half  finished  the  kind  offers  he  was  making  to  the  father,  had 
the  son  insensibly  pressed  up  close  to  his  knees,  and  had  taken 
hold  of  the  breast  of  his  coat,  and  was  pulling  it  towards  him. 
The  blood  and  spirits  of  Le  Fevre,  which  were  waxing  cold  and 
slow  within  him,  and  were  retreating  to  their  last  citadel,  the 
heart,  rallied  back ;  the  film  forsook  his  eyes  for  a  moment  j  he 
looked  up  wishfully  in  my  uncle  Toby's  face,  then  cast  a  look 
upon  his  boy  J  and  that  ligament,  fine  as  it  was,  was  never 
broken.  Nature  instantly  ebbed  again ;  the  film  returned  to 
its  place  j  the  pulse  fluttered — stopped — went  on — throbbed — 
stopped  again  —moved — stopped.     Shall  I  go  on  ?     No. 


EXERCISE  XLVI. 
LAUGH  ON,  LAUGH  ON,  TO-DAY  I 

I. 

Laugh  on,  fair  cousins,  for  to  you 

All  life  is  joyous  yet; 
Your  hearts  have  all  things  to  pursue, 

And  nothing  to  regret ; 
And  every  flower  to  you  is  fair, 

And  every  month  is  May; 
You've  not  been  introduced  to  Care,— 

Laugh  on,  laugh  on,  to-day! 


*  See  Note  on  Exercise  XXXIII. 
6R 


194  SANDERS'     UNION    8JBKIE8. 


Old  Time  will  fling  his  clouds  ere  long 

Upon  those  sunny  eyes  j 
The  Toiee  whose  every  word  is  song, 

Will  set  itself  to  sighs ; 
Your  quiet  slumbers, — hopes  and  fears 

Will  chase  their  rest  away; 
To-morrow,  you'll  be  shedding  tears, — 

Laugh  on,  laugh  on,  to-day  I 

III. 

Oh,  yes ;  if  any  truth  is  found 

In  the  dull  schoolman's  theme, — 
If  friendship  is  an  empty  sound. 

And  love  an  idle  dream, — 
If  mirth,  youth's  playmate,  feels  fatigue 

Too  soon  on  life's  long  way. 
At  least,  he'll  run  with  you  a  league, — 

Laugh  on,  laugh  on,  to-day  I 

IV. 

Perhaps  your  eyes  may  grow  more  bright 

As  childhood's  hues  depart; 
You  may  be  lovelier  to  the  sight, 

And  dearer  to  the  heart; 
You  may  be  sinless  still,  and  see 

This  earth  still  green  and  gay ; 
But  what  you  are  you  wiU  not  be, 

Laugh  on,  laugh  on,  to-day  I 

V. 

O'er  me  have  many  winters  crept, 

With  less  of  grief  than  joy; 
But  I  have  learned,  and  toiled,  and  weptj- 

I  am  no  more  a  boy  I 


RHETORICAL    READER.  I9h 

I've  never  had  the  gout,  'tis  true, 

My  hair  is  hardly  gray; 
But  now  /  cannot  laugh  like  you ; 

Laugh  on,  laugh  on,  to-day  I 

vi. 

T  used  to  have  as  glad  a  face, 

As  shadowless  a  brow  ; 
T  once  could  run  as  blithe  a  race 

As  you  are  running  now ; 
But  never  mind  how  /  behave, 

Don't  interrupt  your  play, 
And,  though  I  look  so  very  grave, 

Laugh  on,  laugh  on,  to-day  I 


EXERCISE  XLVll. 

Arthur  Clevblant)  Coxe  is  an  Episcopal  clergyman,  and  was  born  at 
Mendham,  in  New  Jersey,  in  the  year  1818.  He  is  a  lyric  poet  of  remarkabl* 
merit,  and  writes  chiefly  on  religious  themes.  The  following  is  one  of  hi« 
best  productions. 

HYMN  OF  BOYHOOD. 

A.  CLEVVLiHS  OOZa. 


The  first  dear  thing  that  I  ever  loved, 

Was  a  mother's  gentle  eye, 
That  smiled,  as  I  woke  on  the  dreamy  couch 

That  cradled  my  infancy. 
I  never  forget  the  joyous  thrill 

That  smile  in  my  spirit  stirred, 
Nor  how  it  could  charm  me  against  my  will. 

Till  I  laughed  like  a  joyous  bird. 

II. 

And  the  next  fair  thing  that  ever  I  loved, 
Was  a  bunch  of  summer  flowers, 


196  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES. 

With  odors,  and  hues,  and  loveliness, 
Fresh  as  from  Eden's  bowers. 

I  never  can  find  such  hues  again, 
Nor  smell  such  sweet  perfume ; 

And,  if  there  be  odors  as  sweet  as  then 
'Tis  I  that  have  lost  the  bloom. 

m. 

And  the  next  dear  thing  that  ever  I  loved, 

Was  a  fawn-like  little  maid, 
Half  pleased,  half  awed  by  the  frolic  boy 

That  tortured  her  doll,  and  played : 
I  never  can  see  the  gossamer 

Which  rude,  rough  zephyrs  tease, 
But  I  think  how  I  tossed  her  flossy  locka 

With  my  whirling  bonnet's  breeze. 

rv. 

And  the  next  good  thing  that  ever  I  loved, 

Was  a  bow-kite  in  the  sky  j 
And  a  little  boat  on  the  brooklet's  surf, 

And  a  dog  for  my  company ; 
And  a  jingling  hoop,  with  many  a  bound 

To  my  measured  strike  and  true  j 
And  a  rocket  sent  up  to  the  firmament. 

When  Even  was  out  so  blue. 

V. 

And  the  next  fair  thing  I  was  fond  to  love, 

Was  a  field  of  wavy  grain. 
Where  the  reapers  mowed  j  or  a  ship  in  sail 

On  the  billowy,  billowy  main  : 
And  the  next  was  a  fiery  prancing  horse 

That  I  felt  like  a  man  to  stride; 
And  the  next  was  a  beautiful  sailing-boat 

With  a  helm  it  was  hard  to  guide. 


RHEIORICAL    READER.  197 

VI. 

And  the  next  dear  thing  I  Tfas  fond  to  love, 

Is  tenderer  far  to  tell ; 
'Twas  a  voice,  and  a  hand,  and  gentle  eye 

That  dazzled  me  with  its  spell : 
And  the  loveliest  things  I  had  loved  before, 

Were  only  the  landscape  now, 
On  the  canvas  bright  where  I  pictured  her, 

In  the  glow  of  my  early  vow 

VII. 

And  the  next  good  thing  1  was  fain  to  love, 

Was  to  sit  in  my  cell  alone, 
Musing  o'er  all  these  lovely  things, 

Forever,  forever  flown. 
Then  out  I  walked  in  the  forest  free. 

Where  wantoned  the  autumn  wind. 
And  the  colored  boughs  swung  shiveringly, 

Tn  harmony  with  my  mind. 

VIII. 

And  a  spirit  was  on  me  that  next  I  loved. 

That  ruleth  my  spirit  still. 
And  maketh  me  murmur  these  sing-song  words. 

Albeit  against  my  will. 
And  I  walked  the  woods  till  the  winter  came, 

And  then  did  I  love  the  snow  j 
And  I  heard  the  gales,  through  the  wild  wood  aisles, 

Like  the  Lord's  own  organ  blow. 

IX. 

And  the  bush  I  had  loved  in  my  greenwood  walk, 

I  saw  it  afar  away, 
Surpliced  with  snows,  like  the  bending  priest 

That  kneels  in  the  church  to  pray : 


198  SANDERS'    UN    ON    SERIES. 

And  I  thought  of  the  vaulted  fane,  and  high, 
Where  I  stood  when  a  little  child, 

Awed  by  the  lauds  sung  thrillingly, 
And  the  anthems  un  defiled. 

X. 

And  again  to  the  vaulted  church  I  went. 

And  I  heard  the  same  sweet  prayers. 
And  the  same  full  organ-peals  upsent. 

And  the  same  soft  soothing  airs ; 
And  I  felt  in  my  spirit  so  drear  and  strange 

To  think  of  the  race  I  ran, 
That  I  loved  the  lone  thing  that  knew  no  change, 

In  the  soul  of  the  boy  and  man. 

XI. 

And  the  tears  I  wept  in  the  wilderness, 

And  that  froze  on  my  lids,  did  fall. 
And  melted  to  pearls  for  my  sinfulness. 

Like  scales  on  the  eyes  of  Paul : 
And  the  dear  thing  I  was  fond  to  love, 

Was  that  holy  service  high. 
That  lifted  my  soul  to  joys  above 

And  pleasures  that  do  not  die. 

XII. 

And  then,  said  I,  one  thing  there  is 

That  I  of  the  Lord  desire. 
That  ever,  while  I  on  earth  shall  live, 

I  will  of  the  Lord  require, — 
That  I  may  dwell  in  His  temple  blest, 

As  long  as  my  life  shall  be ; 
And  the  beauty  fair  of  the  Lord  of  HosTti, 

In  the  home  of  His  glory  see. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  199 


EXERCISE  XLVIII. 

William  Elleby  Channjng,  D.  D.,  was  born  at  Newport,  in  Rhode  Island, 
in  the  year  1780.  He  died  in  1842.  He  wrote  chiefly  on  theological  subjects, 
and  was  a  profound  thinker,  an  admirable  writer,  and  an  excellent  man. 
From  one  of  his  discourses  on  the  practical  duties  of  life,  we  take  the 
first  extract  following,  and  from  one  of  his  occasional  addresses  the  second. 

SPIRITUAL  FREEDOM— WHAT  IS  IT? 

OHANNINQ. 

1.  /  call  that  mind  free.,  which  masterp  the  senses,  which 
protects  itself  against  animal  appetites,  which  contemns  pleasure 
and  pain  in  comparison  with  its  own  energy,  which  penetrates 
beneath  the  body  and  recognizes  its  own  reality  and  greatness, 
which  passes  life,  not  in  asking  what  it  shall  eat  or  drink,  but 
in  hungering,  thirsting,  and  seeking  after  righteousness. 

2.  I  call  that  mind  free.,  which  escapes  the  bondage  of  matter, 
which,  instead  of  stopping  at  the  material  universe  and  making 
it  a  prison-wall,  passes  beyond  it  to  its  Author,  and  finds,  in  the 
radiant  signatures  which  it  everywhere  bears  of  the  Infinite 
Spirit,  helps  to  its  own  spiritual  enlargement. 

3.  I  call  that  mind  free ^  which  jealously  guards  its  intellectual 
rights  and  powers,  which  calls  no  man  master,  which  does  not 
content  itself  with  a  passive  or  hereditary  faith,  which  opens 
itself  to  light  whencesoever  it  may  come,  which  receives  new 
truth  as  an  angel  from  heaven,  which,  while  consulting  others, 
inquires  still  more  of  the  oracle  within  itself,  and  uses  instruc- 
tion from  abroad,  not  to  supersede,  but  to  quicken  and  exalt  its 
own  energies. 

4.  I  call  that  wiiwo? /ree,  which  sets  no  bounds  to  its  love, 
'which  is  not  imprisoned  in  itself  or  in  a  sect,  which  recognizes 

in  all  human  beings  the  image  of  God  and  the  rights  of  hip 
children,  which  delights  in  virtue  and  sympathizes  with  suffering, 
wherever  they  are  seen,  which  conquers  pride,  anger,  and  sloth, 
and  offers  itself  up  a  willing  victim  to  the  cause  of  mankind. 

5.  /  call  that  mind  free.,  which  is  not  passively  framed  by 
oitward  circumstances,  which  is  not  swept  away  by  the  torrents 


200  SANDERS'    UNION    SLRIE8. 

of  events,  which  is  not  the  creature  of  accidentaJ  imp  ilse,  but 
which  bends  events  to  its  own  improvement,  and  acts  from  an 
inward  spring,  from  immutable  principles  which  it  has  delibe- 
rately espoused. 

6.  1  call  that  mind  free,  which  protects  itself  against  the 
usurpations  of  society,  which  does  not  cower  to  human  opinion,! 
which  feels  itself  accountable  to  a  higher  tribunal  than  man's, 
which  respects  a  higher  law  than  fashion,  which  respects  itself 
too  much  to  be  the  slave  or  tool  of  the  many  or  the  few. 

7.  /  call  that  mind  free,  which,  through  confidence  in  God, 
and,  in  the  power  of  virtue,  has  cast  off  all  fear  but  that  of 
wrong  doing,  which  no  menace  or  peril  can  enthrall,  which  is 
calm  in  the  midst  of  tumults,  and  possesses  itself,  though  all 
else  be  lost. 

8.  /  call  that  mind  free,  which  resists  the  bondage  of  habit, 
which  does  not  mechanically  repeat  itself  and  copy  the  past, 
which  does  not  live  on  its  old  virtues,  which  does  not  enslave 
itself  to  precise  rules,  but  which  forgets  what  is  behind,  listens 
for  new  and  higher  monitions  of  conscience,  and  rejoices  to 
pour  itself  forth  in  fresh  and  higher  exertions. 

9.  I  call  that  mind  free,  which  is  jealous  of  its  own  freedom, 
which  guards  itself  from  being  merged  in  others,  which  guards 
its  empire  over  itself  as  nobler  than  the  empire  of  the  world. 

10.  In  fine,  I  call  that  mind  free,  which,  conscious  of  its 
affinity  with  God,  and  confiding  in  his  promises  by  Jesus  Christ, 
devotes  itself  faithfully  to  the  unfolding  of  all  its  powers,  which 
passes  the  bounds  of  time  and  death,  which  hopes  to  advance 
forever,  and  which  finds  inexhaustible  power,  both  for  action 
and  suffering,  in  the  prospect  of  immortality. 


THE  PRESENT  AGE. 

1.  The  grand  idea  of  humanity,  of  the  importance  of  man  as 
man,  is  spreading  silently,  but  surely.  Even  the  most  abject 
portions  of  society  are  visited  by  some  dreams  of  a  better  con- 
dition for  which  they  were  designed.     The  grand  doctrine,  that 


RHETORICAL    READER.  201 

every  human  being  should  have  the  means  of  self-culture,  of 
progress  in  knowledge  and  virtue,  of  health,  comfort,  and  hap- 
piness, of  exercising  the  powers  and  affections  of  a  man,  this  is 
slowly  taking  its  place  as  the  highest  social  truth.  That  the 
world  was  made  for  all,  and  not  for  a  few ;  that  society  is  to 
care  for  all ;  that  no  human  being  shall  perish  but  through  his 
own  fault;  that  the  great  end  of  government  is  to  spread  a 
Bhield  over  the  rights  of  all, — these  propositions  are  growing 
into  axioms,  and  the  spirit  of  them  is  coming  forth  in  all  the 
departments  of  life 

2.  The  Present  Age  !  In  these  brief  words  what  a  world  of 
thought  is  comprehended  !  what  infinite  movements  !  what  joys 
and  sorrows !  what  hope  and  despair  I  what  faith  and  doubt  I 
what  silent  grief  and  loud  lament !  what  fierce  conflicts  and 
subtle  schemes  of  policy  !  what  private  and  public  revolutions  I 
In  the  period  through  which  many  of  us  have  passed,  what 
thrones  have  been  shaken  !  what  hearts  have  been  bled  !  what 
millions  have  been  butchered  by  their  fellow -creatures !  what 
hopes  of  philanthropy  have  been  blighted ! 

3.  And  at  the  same  time,  what  magnificent  enterprises  have 
been  achieved !  what  new  provinces  won  to  science  and  art ! 
what  rights  and  liberties  secured  to  nations  !  It  is  a  privilege 
to  have  lived  in  an  age  so  stirring,  so  pregnant,  so  eventful.  It 
is  an  age  never  to  be  forgotten.  Its  voice  of  warning  and 
encouragement  is  never  to  die.  Its  impression  on  history  is 
indelible. 

4.  Amidst  its  events,  the  American  Revolution,  the  first  dis- 
tinct, solemn  assertion  of  the  rights  of  men,  and  the  French 
Revolution,  that  volcanic  force  which  shook  the  earth  to  its 
center,  are  never  to  pass  from  men's  minds.  Over  this  age  the 
night  will,  indeed,  gather  more  and  more  as  time  rolls  away;  but, 
in  that  night,  two  forms  will  appear,  Washington*  and  Napoleon,! 
the  one  a  lurid  meteor,  the  other  a  benign,  serene,  and  in  de- 
caying star. 


*  See  Exercise  CXII.  •}  See  Exercise  XCI 

9* 


'2Uli  BANDERS'     UNION     SERIES. 

5.  Another  American  name  will  live  in  history,  your  Frank- 
lin ;*  and  the  kitef  which  brought  lightning  from  heaven,  will 
be  seen  sailing  in  the  clouds  by  remote  posterity,  when  the  city 
where  he  dwelt  may  be  known  only  by  its  ruins.  There  is, 
however,  something  greater  in  the  age  than  in  its  greatest  menj 
it  is  the  appearance  of  a  new  power  in  the  world,  the  appear- 
ance of  the  multitude  of  men  on  that  stage  where  as  yet  the 
few  have  acted  their  parts  alone. 

6.  This  influence  is  to  endure  to  the  end  of  time.  What 
more  of  the  present  is  to  survive  ?  Perhaps,  much  of  which 
we  now  take  no  note.  The  glory  of  an  age  is  often  hidden  from 
itself.  Perhaps,  some  word  has  been  spoken  in  our  day  which 
we  have  not  deigned  to  hear,  but  which  is  to  grow  clearer  and 
louder  through  all  ages. 

7.  Perhaps,  some  silent  thinker  among  us  is  at  work  in  his 
closet  whose  name  is  to  fill  the  whole  earth.  Perhaps,  there 
sleeps  in  his  cradle  some  reformer  who  is  to  move  the  church 
and  the  world,  who  is  to  open  a  new  era  in  history,  who  is  to  fire 
the  human  soul  with  new  hope  and  new  daring.  What  else  is 
to  survive  the  age  ?  That  which  the  age  has  little  thought  of, 
but  which  is  living  in  us  all ; — I  mean  the  Soul,  the  Immortal 
Spirit. 

8.  Of  this  all  ages  are  the  unfoldings,  and  it  is  greater  than 
all.  We  must  not  feel,  in  the  contemplation  of  the  vast  move- 
ments of  our  own  and  former  times,  as  if  we  ourselves  were 
nothing.  I  repeat  it,  we  are  greater  than  all.  We  are  to  sur- 
vive our  age,  to  comprehend  it,  and  to  pronounce  its  sentence. 
As  yet,  however,  we  are  encompassed  with  darkness.  The 
issues  of  our  time  how  obscure !  The  future  into  which  it 
Dpsu:,  who  of  us  can  foresee?  To  the  Father  of  all  Ages  I 
commit  this  future  with  humble,  yet  courageous  and  unfaltering 
hope. 

*  See  Exercise  CXXXIII. 

f  The  reference  here  is  to  Dr.  Franklin's  well-known  experiment 
with  a  kite  made  in  Philadelphia,  in  June  1752,  whereby  he  succeeded 
in  actually  cond  acting  the  lightning  to  the  earth,  and  so  establishing 
the  identity  of  lightning  with  electricity. 


RHETORICAL    READER  208 


EXERCISE  XLIX 


William  Murray,  .Irst  Earl  of  Mansfield,  was  born  near  Perth,  iu  Scot- 
land,  in  the  year  1705,  and  died  in  1793.  While  a  student  he  gave  himself  to 
Btudy  with  that  extraordinary  diligence  for  which  he  was  always  remarkable. 
Being  jestined  for  the  bar,  he  made  everything  subservient  to  that  object. 
"In  closeness  of  argument,"  says  an  able  writer,  quoted  by  Prof.  Goodrich, 
"in  happiness  of  illustration,  in  copiousness  and  grace  of  diction,  the  oratory 
of  Murray  was  unsurpassed."  The  speech,  part  of  which  we  give  below,  is 
regarded  as  his  best  efifort  in  Parliament.  It  was  delivered  during  a  debate 
on  a  bill  for  taking  away  all  privilege  from  the  servants  of  members  of  Par- 
liament. As  an  exercise  m  reading,  to  show  the  tone  and  manner  proper  in 
dignified  debate,  it  has  no  superior 

SPEECH  OF  LORD  MANSFIELD  ON  PRIVILEGE. 

1.  I  come  now  to  speak  upon  what,  indeed,  I  would  have 
gladly  avoided,  had  I  not  been  particularly  pointed  at  for  the 
part  I  have  taken  in  this  bill.  It  has  been  said  by  a  noble 
lord  on  my  left  hand,  that  /  likewise  am  running  the  race  of 
popularity.  If  the  noble  lord  means  by  popularity,  that  applause 
bestowed  by  after  ages  on  good  and  virtuous  actions,  I  have 
long  been  struggling  in  that  race, — to  what  purpose  all-trying 
time  can  alone  determine;  but,  if  that  noble  lord  means  that 
mushroom  popularity  which  is  raised  without  merit,  and  lost 
without  a  crime,  lie  is  much  mistaken  in  his  opinion.  I  defy 
the  noble  lord  to  point  out  a  single  action  of  my  life,  where  the 
popularity  of  the  times  ever  had  the  smallest  influence  on  my 
determinations. 

2.  I  thank  God,  I  have  a  more  permanent  and  steady  rule 
for  my  conduct — the  dictates  of  my  own  breast.  Those  that 
have  forgone  that  pleasing  adviser,  and  given  up  their  minds  to 
be  the  slave  of  every  popular  impulse,  I  sincerely  pity;  I  pity 
them  stiL  more,  if  their  vanity  leads  them  to  mistake  the  shouts 
of  a  mob  for  the  trumpet  of  fame.  Experience  might  inform 
them,  that  many  who  have  been  saluted  with  the  huzzas  of  a 
erowd  one  day,  have  received  their  execrations  the  next;  and 
many  who,  by  the  popularity  of  the  times,  have  been  held  up  as 
spotless  patriots,  have,  nevertheless,  appeared  upon  the  histo- 


204  SANDERS'    UNION     SERIES. 

rian's    page,   where  truth   has   triumphed    over  delusion,   tha 
assassins  of  liberty. 

3.  Why,  then,  the  noble  lord  can  think  I  am  ambitious  of 
present  popularity,  that  echo  of  folly  and  shadow  of  renown,  I 
am  at  a  loss  to  determine.  Besides,  I  do  not  know  that  the  bill 
now  before  your  lordships  will  be  popular  j  it  depends  much 
upon  the  caprice  of  the  day.  It  may  not  he  popular  to  compe. 
p3ople  to  pay  their  debts  j  and,  in  that  case,  the  present  must 
be  a  very  unpopular  bill.  It  may  not  be  popular,  neither,  to 
take  away  any  of  the  privileges  of  Parliament :  for  I  very  well 
remember,  and  many  of  your  lordships  may  remember,  that  not 
long  ago,  the  popular  cry  was  for  the  extension  of  privileges ; 
and  so  far  did  they  carry  it  at  that  time,  that  it  was  said  that 
privilege  protected  members  even  in  criminal  actions;  nay, 
such  was  the  power  of  popular  prejudices  over  weak  minds, 
that  the  very  decisions  of  some  of  the  courts  were  tinctured 
with  this  doctrine.  It  was  indubitably  an  abominable  doctrine : 
I  thought  so  then^  and  think  so  still ;  but  nevertheless,  it  was  a 
popular  doctrine,  and  came  immediately  from  those  who  are 
called  the  friends  of  liberty — how  deservedly  time  will  show. 

4.  True  liberty,  in  my  opinion,  can  only  exist  when  justice 
is  equally  administered  to  all — to  the  king  and  to  the  beggar. 
Where  is  the  justice,  then,  or  where  is  the  law,  that  protects 
a  member  of  Parliament  more  than  any  other  man  from  the 
punishment  due  to  his  crimes  ?  The  laws  of  this  country  allow 
no  place  nor  employment  to  be  a  sanctuary  for  crimes;  and, 
where  I  have  the  honor  to  sit  as  a  judge,  neither  royal  favor 
nor  popular  applause  shall  ever  protect  the  guilty.  I  have 
now  only  to  beg  pardon  for  having  employed  so  much  of  your 
lordships'  time,  and  am  sorry  a  bill  fraught  with  so  good  con- 
3r][uences,  has  not  met  with  an  abler  advocate ;  but  I  doubt 
not  your  lordships*  determination  will  convince  the  world,  that 
a  bill  calculated  to  contribute  so  much  to  the  equal  distrihdtion 
of  justice  as  the  present,  requires,  with  your  lordships,  but  ver^ 
little  S'lpport. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  205 

EXERCISE  L. 
SLEEP,  MR.  SPEAKER! 

W.  X    PTiABD.* 
OH    8BSINQ    THE    SPEAKER  ASLEEP  IN    HIS    CHAIR   IN  ONE  Of  THB    DSBATSI 
OP  THE  FIRST  REFORMED  PARLIAMENT. 

I. 

Sleep,  Mr.  Speaker  !  'tis  surely  fair 

If  you  mayn't  in  your  hed^  that  you  sh'^uld  in  yom  chair* 

Louder  and  longer  now  they  grow, 

Tory  and  Radical,  Jy,  and  No  ! 

Talking  by  night,  and  talking  by  day. 

Sleep  J  Mr.  Speaker^  sleep  while  you  may  I 

n. 

Sleep,  Mr.  Speaker ;  slumber  lies 

Light  and  brief  on  a  Speaker's  eyes. 

Fielden  or  Finn  in  a  minute  or  two 

Some  disorderly  thing  will  do; 

Riot  will  chase  repose  away — 

Sleep,  Mr.  Speaker^  sleep  while  you  may! 

III. 
Sleep,  Mr.  Speaker.     Sweet  to  men 
Is  the  sleep  that  cometh  but  now  and  then ; 
Sweet  to  the  weary,  sweet  to  the  ill. 
Sweet  to  the  children  that  work  in  the  mill. 
Yoic  have  more  need  of  repose  than  they — 
Sleep,  Mr.  Speaker,  sleep  while  you  may  I 

IV. 

!51eep  Mr.  Speaker ;  Harvey  Wiil  soon 
Move  to  abolish  the  sun  and  the  moon  j 

*  See  Note  on  Exercise  XXXIII. 


i200  SANDERS'     UNION    SERIES. 

Hume  will,  no  doubt,  be  taking  the  sense 
Of  the  House  on  a  question  of  sixteen  pence. 
Statesmen  will  howl,  and  patriots  bray — 
Sleep,  Mr.  Speaker,  sleep  while  you  may ! 


V. 

Sleep,  Mi.  Speaker,  and  dream  of  the  time, 
When  loyalty  was  not  quite  a  crime ; 
When  Grant  was  a  pupil  in  Canning's  school, 
And  Palmerston  fancied  Wood  a  fool. 
Deal  me  !  how  principles  pass  away — 
Sleep,  Mr.  Speaker,  sleep  while  you  may  ! 


EXERCISE  LI. 

TnoMAS  Hood,  chiefly  known  as  a  comie  poet  and  humorist,  was  born  in 
London  in  1795,  and  died  in  1845.  Though  best  known  as  a  humorous 
writer,  he  wfcs  capable  of  moving  the  higher  feelings  to  an  extent  that  makes 
us  regret  that  his  tastes  or  his  necessities  kept  him  almost  constantly  in  the 
region  of  fun,  frolic,  and  gayety.  Yet  "even  in  his  puns  and  levities,"  says 
an  able  judge,  "there  is  a  'spirit  of  good'  directed  to  some  kindly  or  philan- 
thropic object."  Wo  give  below  two  of  his  most  celebrated  pieces,  in  which 
he  appears  in  the  opposite  lights  ot  gayety  and  gravity — for  which  he  is  80 
reaaarkable. 

PARENTAL  ODE  TO  MY  LITTLE  SON. 

THOMAS  HOOD. 
I. 

Thou  happy,  happy  elf! 
(But  stop — first  let  me  kiss  away  that  tear  T) 

Thou  tiny  image  of  myself! 
('My  love,  he's  poking  peas  into  his  ear !) 

Thou  merry,  laughing  sprite  I 

With  spirits,  feather  light. 
Untouched  by  sorrow,  and  unsoiled  by  sin, 
(Good  heavens  !  the  child  is  swallowing, a  pin  I) 


RHETORICAL    READER.  20' 


Thou  little  tricksy  Puck ! 
With  antic  toys  so  funnily  bestuck, 
Light  as  the  singing  bird  that  wings  the  air, 
(The  door  !  the  door  !  he'll  tumble  down  the  stair  I) 

Thou  darling  of  thy  sire  ! 
(Why  Jane,  he'll  set  his  pinafore  afire  !) 

Thou  imp  of  mirth' and  joy! 
In   JVC's  dear  chain  so  strong  and  bright  a  link, 
Thou  idol  of  thy  parents  (Drat  the  boy  I 

There  goes  my  ink  !) 

ni. 

Thou  cherub — but  of  earth ; 
Fit  playfellow  for  Fays  by  moonlight  pale, 

In  harmless  sport,  and  mirth, 
(That  dog  will  bite  him,  if  he  pulls  its  tail !) 
Thou  human  humming-bee,  extracting  honey 
From  every  blossom  in  the  world  that  blows, 
Singing  in  youth's  Elysium  ever  sunny, 
'(Another  tumble — that's  his  precious  nose !) 

Thy  father's  pride  and  hope  ! 
(He'll  break  the  mirror  with  that  skipping-rope !) 
With  pure  heart  newly  stamped  from  nature's  mint, 
(Where  did  he  learn  that  squint !) 

IV. 

Thou  young  domestic  dove  ! 
(He'll  have  that  jug  oflf  with  another  shove !) 

Dear  nursling  of  the  hymeneal  nest ! 

(Are  those  torn  clothes  his  best  ?) 

Tjittle  epitome  of  man  ! 
(He'll  dimb  upon  the  table,  that's  his  plan !) 
Touched  with  the  beauteous  tints  of  dawning  life, 

(He's  got  a  knife  !) 


208  SANDERS'    UNION   SERIES. 

Thou  enviable  being ! 
No  storms,  no  clouds,  in  thy  blu€  sky  foreseeing, 
Play  on,  play,  on, 
My  elfin  John  I 

V. 

Toss  the  light  ball — bestride  the  stick, 
(I  knew  so  many  cakes  would  make  him  sick  !) 
With  fancies  buoyant  as  the  thistle-down, 
Prompting  the  face  grotesque,  and  antic  brisk 

With  many  a  lamb-like  frisk, 
(He's  got  the  scissors,  snipping  at  youi  gown  !) 

Thou  pretty  opening  rose  ! 
(Go  to  your  mother,  child,  and  wipe  your  nose  I) 
Balmy,  and  breathing  music  like  the  south, 
(He  really  brings  my  heart  into  my  mouth !) 
Fresh  as  the  morn,  and  brilliant  as  its  star, 
(I  wish  that  window  had  an  iron  bar  I) 
Bold  as  the  hawk,  yet  gentle  as  the  dove, 
(I'll  tell  you  what,  my  love, 
I  cannot  write,  unless  he's  sent  above  !) 


EXERCISE  LII. 
SONG  OF  THE  SHIRT. 


tUOUAS  HOOb 


With  fingers  weary  and  worn. 

With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 
A  woman  sat,  in  unwomanly  rags, 

Plying  her  needle  and  thread, — 
Stitch!  stitch!  stitch! 
In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt, 

And  still,  with  a  voice  of  dolorous  pitch, 
She  sang  the  "  Song  of  the  Shirt." 


RHETORICAL   READER.  209 

11. 

"Work!  work!  work  I 
While  the  cock  is  crowing  aloof ! 

And  work — work — work, 
Till  the  stars  shine  through  the  roof! 
It's  oh !  to  be  a  slave 

Along  with  the  barbarous  Turk, 
Where  woman  has  never  a  soul  to  save, 

If  this  is  Christian  work 

III. 

"  Work — work — work, 
Till  the  brain  begins  to  swim, 

Work — work — work, 
Till  the  eyes  are  heavy  and  dim ! 

Seam,  and  gusset,  and  band, 

Band,  and  gusset,  and  seam, 
Till  over  the  buttons  I  fall  asleep. 

And  sew  them  on  in  a  dream  I 


IV. 

"  Oh  !  men,  with  sisters  dear  I 

Oh  !  men,  with  mothers  and  wives ! 
It  is  not  linen  you're  wearing  out, 

But  human  creatures'  lives  ! 
Stitch — stitch — stitch. 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt, 
Sewing  at  once,  with  a  double  thread, 

A  shroud  as  well  as  a  shirt. 


V. 

"  But  why  do  I  talk  of  death. 
That  phantom  of  grisly  bone, 

I  hardly  fear  his  terrible  shape, 
It  seems  so  like  my  own — 
O 


210  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES." 

It  seems  so  like  my  own, 
Because  of  the  fasts  I  keep, 
Oh  Grod  !  that  bread  should  be  so  dear, 
And  flesh  and  blood  so  cheap  I 

VI. 

"  Work — work — work  1 

My  labor  never  flags ; 
And  what  are  its  wages  ?     A  bed  of  straw, 

A  crust  of  bread, — and  rags, — 
That  shattered  roof — and  this  naked  floor — 

A  table — a  broken  chair — 
And  a  wall  so  blank,  my  shadow  I  thank 

For  sometimes  falling  there  I 

VII. 

"  Work — work — work  I 
From  weary  chime  to  chime  ! 

Work — work — work, 
As  prisoners  work  for  crime  I 

Band,  and  gusset,  and  seam, 

Seam,  and  gusset,  and  band, 
Till  the  heart  is  sick,  and  the  brain  benumbed, 

As  well  as  the  weary  hand. 

vin. 

"  Work — work — ^work  ! 
In  the  dull  December  light. 

And  work — work — work. 
When  the  weather  is  warm  and  bright- 
While  underneath  the  eaves 

The  brooding  swallows  cling. 
As  if  to  show  me  their  sunny  backs, 

And  twit  me  with  the  Spring. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  211 

IX. 

"  Oh  !  but  to  breathe  the  breath 

Of  the  cowslip  and  primrose  sweet— 
With  the  sky  above  my  head 

And  the  grass  beneath  my  feet. 
For  only  one  sweet  hour 

To  feel  as  I  used  to  feel, 
Before  I  knew  the  woes  of  want, 

And  the  walk  that  costs  a  meal  I 


"  C)h  !  but  for  one  short  hour  I 

A  respite,  however  brief  I 
No  blessed  leisure  for  love  or  hope, 

But  only  time  for  grief! 
A  little  weeping  would  ease  my  heart, 

But,  in  their  briny  bed, 
My  tears  must  stop,  for  every  drop 

Hinders  needle  and  thread  !" 

XI. 

With  fingers  weary  and  worn, 

With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 
A  woman  sat,  in  unwomanly  rags, 

Plying  her  needle  and  thread — 
Stitch  !  stitch  !  stitch  ! 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt, 
And  still  with  a  voice  of  dolorous  pitch — 
Would  that  its  tone  could  reach  the  rich  !- 

She  sung  this  "  Song  of  the  Shirt " 


212  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES. 


EXERCISE  LIII. 
MAN'S  WORKS  SHALL  FOLLOW  HIM. 

JOHN  Q.  WBITTUR.* 
I. 

'Tis  truth  that  painter,  bard,  and  sage, 
Even  in  earth's  cold  and  changeful  clime, 

Plant  for  their  deathless  heritage 
The  fruits  and  flowers  of  time. 

n. 

We  shape  ourselves  the  joy  or  fear 

Of  which  the  coming  life  is  made, 
And  fill  our  Future's  atmosphere 

With  sunshine  or  with  shade. 

in. 

The  tissue  of  the  Life  to  be 

We  weave  with  colors  all  our  own, 
And  in  the  field  of  Destiny 

We  reap  as  we  have  sown 

rv. 

Still  shall  the  soul  around  it  call 

The  shadows  which  it  gathered  hero, 

And  fainted- on  the  eternal  wall 
The  Past  shall  re-appear. 


Think  ye  the  notes  of  holy  song 
On  Milton's  tuneful  ear  have  died  ? 

Think  ye  that  Kaphael's  angel  throng 
Has  vanished  from  his  side? 

*  See  Note,  Exercise  V. 


RHETORICAL    READER  218 

VI. 

Oh,  no  !     We  live  our  life  again : 

Or  warmly  touched  or  coldly  dim, 
The  pictures  of  the  Past  remain, — 

Man's  works  shall  follow  him  1 


EXERCISE  LIV. 

Joseph  Story,  the  eminent  jurist,  and  accomplished  scholar,  was  born  at 
Marblehead,  in  Massachusetts,  in  1782.  In  1811  he  was  made  a  judge  of  the 
Supreme  Court  of  the  United  States.  In  1830  he  was  appointed  Dane  Pro- 
fessor of  the  Law  School  of  Harvard  University.  In  both  these  situations 
he  acquitted  himself  with  distinguished  ability.  He  died  in  1845.  The  fol- 
lowing is  from  a  discourse  on  the  occasion  of  the  consecration  of  Mount 
Auburn  Cemetery  in  1831. 

RESTING-PLACES  FOR  THE  DEAD  INTERESTING  TO  THE 
LIVING. 

JUDGE  BTOST. 

1.  "  Bury  me  not,  I  pray  thee"  said  the  patriarch  Jacob, 
"  hury  me  not  in  Egypt :  but  I  will  lie  with  my  fathers.  And 
thou  shalt  carry  me  out  of  Egypt:  hut  I  will  lie  with  my  fathers. 
And  thou  shalt  carry  me  out  of  Egypt ;  and  bury  me  in  their 
hurying-place."  "  There  they  buried  Abraham,  and  Sarah  his 
wife  ;  there  they  buried  Isaac,  and  Rebecca  his  wife  ;  and  there 
I  buried  Leah." 

2.  Such  are  the  natural  expressions  of  human  feeling,  as  they 
fall  from  the  lips  of  the  dying  Such  are  the  reminiscences 
that  forever  crowd  on  the  confines  of  the  passes  to  the  grave. 
We  seek  again  to  have  our  home  there  with  our  friends,  and  to 
be  blest  by  a  communion  with  them.  It  is  a  matter  of  instinct, 
not  of  reasoning.  It  is  a  spiritual  impulse,  which  supersedes 
belief,  and  disdains  question. 

3.  It  is  to  the  living  mourner — to  the  parent,  weeping  over 
his  dear  dead  child — to  the  husband,  dwelling  in  his  own 
solitary  desolation — to  the  widow,  whose  heart  is  broken  by 
untimely  sorrow — to  the  friend,  who  misses  at  every  turn  the 


214  SANDERS'    UNION    8ERIES. 

presence  of  some  kindred  spirit, — it  is  to  these  that  the  repo/ji- 
tories  of  the  dead  bring  home  thoughts  full  of  admonition,  of 
instruction,  and  slowly,  but  surely,  of  consolation  also.  They 
admonish  us,  by  their  very  silence,  of  our  own  frail,  transitory 
being  They  instruct  us  in  the  true  value  of  life,  and  in  its 
noble  purposes,  its  duties,  and  its  dfc;,-ination.  They  spread 
around  us,  in  the  reminiscences  of  the  past,  sources  of  pleasing, 
though  malancholy  reflection. 

4.  I  have  spoken  but  of  feelings  and  associations  common  to 
all  ages,  and  all  generations  of  men — to  the  rude  and  the 
polished — to  the  barbarian  and  the  civilized — to  the  bond  and 
the  free — to  the  inhabitant  of  the  dreary  forests  of  the  north, 
and  the  sultry  regions  of  the  south — to  the  worsh.'.per  of  the 
sun,  and  the  worshiper  of  idols — to  the  heathen,  dwelling  in  the 
darkness  of  his  cold  mythology,  and  to  the  Christian,  rejoicing 
in  the  light  of  the  true  God.  Everywhere  we  trace  them,  in 
the  characteristic  remains  of  the  most  distant  ages  and  nations, 
and  as  far  back  as  human  history  carries  its  traditionary  out- 
I'.ies.  They  are  found  in  the  barrows,  and  cairns,  and  mounds 
jf  olden  times,  reared  by  the  uninstructed  affection  of  savage 
tribes ;  and  everywhere  the  spots  seem  to  have  been  selected 
with  the  same  tender  regard  to  the  living  and  the  dead ;  that 
the  magnificence  of  nature  might  administer  comfort  to  human 
sorrow,  and  incite  human  sympathy. 

5.  If  this  tender  regard  for  the  dead  be  so  absolutely  uni- 
versal, and  so  deeply  founded  in  human  affection,  why  is  it  not 
made  to  exert  a  more  profound  influence  on  our  lives  ?  Why 
do  we  not  enlist  it  with  more  persuasive  energy  in  the  cause  of 
human  improvement  ?  Why  do  we  not  enlarge  it  as  a  source 
of  religious  consolation?  Why  do  we  not  make  it  a  more 
efl&cient  instrument  to  elevate  ambition,  to  stimulate  genius, 
and  to  dignify  learning  ?  Why  do  we  not  connect  it  indiasolubly 
with  associations,  which  charm  us  in  nature,  and  engross  us  in 
art  ?  Why  do  we  not  dispel  from  it  that  unlovely  gloom,  from 
which  our  hearts  turn,  as  from  a  darkness  that  ensnares,  and  a 
horroi  that  appalls  our  thoughts  ? 

6    To  many,  nay,  to  most  of  the  heathen,  the  burying-place 


RHETORICAL    READER.  2l5 

was  tbe  end  of  all  things.  They  indulged  no  hope,  at  least,  no 
solid  hope,  of  any  future  intercourse  or  reunion  with  their 
friends.  The  farewell  at  the  grave  was  a  long,  and  an  ever- 
lasting farewell.  At  the  moment,  when  they  breathed  it,  it 
brought  to  their  hearts  a  startling  sense  of  their  own  wretched- 
ness. Yet,  ^hen  the  first  tumults  of  anguish  were  passed,  they 
visit-ed  the  spot,  and  strewed  flowers,  and  garlands,  and  crowns 
aiound  it,  to  assuage  their  grief,  and  nourish  their  piety.  They 
delighted  to  make  it  the  abode  of  the  varying  beauties  of 
nature;  to  give  it  attractions,  which  should  invite  the  busy 
and  the  thoughtful;  and  yet,  at  the  same  time,  afford  ample 
8cope  for  the  secret  indulgence  of  sorrow. 

7.  Why  should  not  Christians  imitate  such  examples  ?  They 
have  far  nobler  motives  to  cultivate  moral  sentiments  and  sen- 
sibilities; to  make  cheerful  the  pathways  to  the  grave;  to 
combine  with  deep  meditations  on  human  mortality  the  sublime 
consolations  of  religion.  We  know,  indeed,  as  they  did  of  old, 
that  "  man  goeth  to  his  long  home,  and  the  mourners  go  about 
the  streets.'*  But  that  home  is  not  an  everlasting  home ;  and 
the  mourners  may  not  weep,  as  those  who  are  without  hope. 

8.  What  is  the  grave  to  us,  but  a  thin  barrier,  dividing  time 
from  eternity,  and  earth  from  Heaven?  What  is  it,  but  "the 
appointed  place  of  rendezvous,  where  all  the  travelers  on  life'*i 
journey  meet,"  for  a  single  night  of  repose  ? 

"'Tis  but  a  night — a  long  and  moonless  night, 
We  make  the  grave  our  bed,  and  then  are  gcnr  ' 

Know  we  not, 

*♦  The  time  draws  on 
When  not  a  single  spot  of  burial  earth, 
Whether  on  land  or  in  the  spacious  sea, 
But  must  give  up  its  long-committed  doit 
InTloUte  ?'' 


!16  SANDEF>      UNION    SERIES 

EXERCISE  LV. 
THE  BELL  AT  GREENWOOD.* 

AETHUR   acOBBELL, 
I. 

A  mourir?rul  office  is  thine,  old  Bell, 

To  ring  'brth  naught  but  the  iust  aad  knell 

Of  the  coffined  worm,  as  he  passeth  by, 

And  thou  seem'st  to  say, — "  Ye  all  must  die!** 

n. 

No  joyful  peal  dost  thou  ever  ring ; 
But  ever  and  aye,  as  hither  they  bring 
The  dead  to  sleep  'neath  the  greenwood  tree, 
Thy  sound  is  heard,  pealing  mournfully. 

in. 

No  glad  occasion  dost  thou  proclaim ; 
Thy  mournful  tone  is  ever  the  same — 
The  slow  measured  peal,  that  tells  of  woe, 
Such  as  hearts  that  feel  it,  may  only  know. 

IV. 

Hadst  thou  the  power  of  speech,  old  Bell, 
Methinks  strange  stories  thou'dst  often  tell; 
How  some  are  brought  here,  with  tear  and  moan, 
While  others  pass  by,  unmourned,  alone; 

V. 

How  strangers  are  hither  brought  to  sleep, 
Whose  home,  perhaps,  was  beyond  the  deep ; 
Who,  seeking  our  shores,  come  but  to  die, 
And  here,  in  this  hallowed  spot,  to  lie ; 

*  A.  beautiful  cemetery  in  Brooklyn,  New  York. 


EHETORICAL    REA.DER.  217 

Vl. 

flow  a  wife  hath  followed  a  husband's  bier, — 
How  a  husband  hath  followed  a  wife  most  dear,— 
How  brother  and  sister  have  come  in  turn, 
To  shed  their  tears  o'er  a  parent's  urn  j 

VII. 

How  father  and  mother,  in  accents  wild. 
Have  bewailed  the  loss  of  a  darling  child ; 
How  a  friend  o'er  a  friend  hath  shed  the  tear, 
As  he  laid  him  down  to  slumber  here; 

VIII. 
How  the  victim  of  sorrow's  ceaseless  smart, 
Hath  given  up  life  with  a  willing  heart, 
And  thought  of  this  spot  with  a  smiling  face, 
Glad,  at  last,  to  find  him  a  resting-place 

IX. 

I  wonder  if  thou  dost  ring,  old  Bell, 
For  the  rich  man,  a  louder,  longer  knell, 
Than  thou  dost  for  the  poor  who  enter  here, 
Or  the  humble  and  unpretending  bier ; 

X. 

And  dost  thou  ring  forth  a  peal  less  sad 

For  the  pure  and  the  good,  than  for  the  bad  ? 

Or  dost  thou  toll  the  same  knell  for  all — 

The  rich  and  the  poor,  the  great  and  the  small  I 

XI. 

Oh,  a  mournful  office  is  thine,  old  Bell  I 

To  ring  forth  naught  but  the  last  sad  knell 

Of  the  coffined  worm,  as  he  passeth  by. 

And  thou  seem'st  to  say, — "  Thus  all  must  die!" 

6  R  10 


218  SANDERS'     UNION     SERIES. 


EXERCISE  LVI. 

"  CfiARLES  Lamb,"  eaya  an  acute  critic,  "is  one  of  the  most  admirable  of 
those  humoriats  who  form  the  peculiar  feature  of  the  literature,  as  the  ideas 
they  express,  are  the  peculiar  distinction  of  the  character  of  the  English 
people.  He  was  born  in  1775,  and  died  in  1834;  and  forms  a  bright  light  in 
that  intellectual  galaxy  of  which  Wordsworth  is  the  center.  He  was  essen- 
tially a  Londoner:  London  life  supplied  him  with  his  richest  materials;  and 
yet  his  mini  was  so  imbued,  so  saturated  with  our  older  writers,  that  ae  is 
original  by  the  mere  force  of  self- transformation  into  the  spirit  of  the  eldei 
literature :  be  was,  in  short,  an  old  writer,  who  lived  by  accident  a  century 
or  two  after  his  real  time.  Wordsworth  is  peculiarly  the  poet  of  solitary 
rural  nature;  Lamb  drew  an  inspiration  as  true,  as  delicate,  as  profound, 
from  the  city  life  in  which  he  lived ;  and  from  which  he  never  was,  for  a 
moment,  remoyed  but  with  pain  and  a  yearning  to  come  back." 

NEW  YEAR'S  EVE. 

CHARLES  LAMB. 

1.  Every  man  hath  two  hirthdays:  two  days,  at  least,  in 
every  year,  which  set  him  upon  revolving  the  lapse  of  time,  as 
it  affects  his  mortal  duration.  The  one  is  that  which,  in  an 
especial  manner,  he  termeth  his.  In  the  gradual  desuetude  of 
old  observances,  this  custom  of  solemnizing  our  proper  birthday, 
hath  nearly  passed  away,  or  is  left  to  children,  who  reflect 
nothing  at  all  about  the  matter,  nor  understand  anything  in  it 
beyond  cake  and  orange.  But  the  birth  of  a  New  Year  is  of 
an  interest  too  wide  to  be  pretermitted  by  king  or  cobbler.  No 
one  ever  regarded  the  first  of  January  with  indifference.  It  is 
that  from  which  all  date  their  time,  and  count  upon  what  is 
left.     It  is  the  nativity  of  our  common  Adam. 

2.  Of  all  sound  of  all  bells — (bells,  the  music  nighest  border-., 
ing  upon  heaven) — most  solemn  and  touching  is  the  peal  which 
rings  out  the  Old  Year.  I  never  hear  it  without  a  gathering 
up  of  my  mind  to  a  concentration  of  all  the  images  that  have 
been  diffused  over  the  past  twelvemonth ;  all  I  have  done  or 
suffered,  performed  or  neglected — in  that  regretted  time.  1 
begin  to  know  its  worth,  as  when  a  person  dies.  It  takes  a 
personal  color;  nor  was  it  a  poetical  flight  in  a  contemporary, 
when  he  sxclaimed, 

"  /  saw  the  skirts  of  the  departing  Year  /*' 


RHETORICAL    READER.  219 

It  is  no  more  than  what^  in  sober  sadness,  every  one  ol*  us  seems 
to  be  conscious  of,  in  that  awful  leave-taking.  I  am  sure  I  felt 
it,  and  all  felt  it  with  me,  last  night ;  though  some  of  my  com- 
panions affected  rather  to  manifest  an  exhilaration  at  the  birth 
of  the  coming  year,  than  any  very  tender  regrets  for  the  decease 
of  its  predecessor.     But  I  am  none  of  those  who — 

*'  Welcome  the  coming,  speed  the  parting  guests 

\  am  naturally,  beforehand,  shy  of  novelties;  new  books,  new 
laces,  new  years, — from  some  mental  twist  which  makes  it  diffi- 
cult in  me  to  face  the  prospective.  I  have  almost  ceased  to 
hope  ]  and  am  sanguine  only  in  the  prospects  of  other  (former) 
years.  I  plunge  into  foregone  visions  and  conclusions.  I  en- 
counter pell-mell  with  past  disappointments.  I  am  armor-proof 
against  old  discouragements.  I  forgive,  or  overcome  in  fancy, 
old  adversaries.  I  play  over  again  for  love,  as  the  gamester's 
phrase  it,  games  for  which  I  once  paid  so  dear.  I  would  scarce 
now  have  any  of  those  untoward  accidents  and  events  of  my 
life  reversed.  I  would  no  more  alter  them  than  the  incidents 
of  some  well  contrived  novel. 

3.  The  elders,  with  whom  I  was  brought  up,  were  of  a  character 
not  likely  to  let  slip  the  sacred  observance  of  any  old  institution  j 
and  the  ringing  out  of  the  Old  Year  was  kept  by  them  with 
circumstances  of  peculiar  ceremony.  In  those  days  the  sound 
of  those  midnight  chimes,  though  it  seemed  to  raise  hilarity  in 
all  around  me,  never  failed  to  bring  a  train  of  pensive  imagery 
into  my  fancy.  Yet  I  then  scarce  conceived  what  it  meant,  or 
thought  of  it  as  a  reckoning  that  concerned  me. 

4.  Not  childhood  alone,  but  the  young  man  till  thirty,  never 
feels  practically  that  he  is  mortal.  He  knows  it,  indeed,  and, 
if  need  were,  he  could  preach  a  homily  on  the  fragility  of  life ; 
but  he  brings  it  not  home  to  himself,  any  more  than,  in  a  hot 
June,  we  can  appropriate  to  our  imagination  the  freezing  days 
of  December.  But  now,  shall  I  confess  a  truth  ?  I  feel  these 
audits  but  too  powerfully.  I  begin  to  count  the  probabilities  of 
my  duration,  and  to  grudge  at  the  expenditure  of  moments  and 
shortest  periods,  like  miser's  farthings.     In  proportion  as  the 


220  8ANDER8'     UNIO>'     SERIES 

years  both  lessen  and  shorten,  I  set  more  count  uj  an  theit 
periods,  and  would  fain  lay  my  ineflFectual  finger  upon  the  spoke 
of  the  great  wheel. 


EXERCISE  LVII. 

Alfred  Tennyson,  author  of  the  following  spirited  verses,  was  born  about 
the  year  1810.  He  has  written  some  things  so  true  to  nature,  so  simple,  so 
touchingly  pathetic, — as  "  The  May  Queen,"  for  example, — as  to  entitle  him 
to  the  praise  of  a  true  poetic  inspiration.  His  father  was  a  clergyman  in 
Lincolnshire,  England. 

RING  OUT  THE  OLD  YEAR. 

nmasoa. 
I. 

Ring  out,  wild  bells,  to  the  wild  sky, 

The  flying  cloud,  the  frosty  light : 

The  year  is  dying  in  the  night  j 
Ring  out,  wild  bells,  and  let  him  die  I 

II. 

Ring  out  the  old,  ring  in  the  new. 

Ring,  happy  bells,  across  the  snow : 

The  year  is  going,  let  him  go  j 
Ring  out  the  false,  ring  in  the  true  I 

III. 

Ring  out  the  grief  that  saps  the  mind, 
For  those  that  here  we  see  no  more  j 
Ring  out  the  feud  of  rich  and  poor, 

Ring  in  redress  to  all  mankind  I 

IV. 
Ring  out  a  slowly  dying  cause, 

And  ancient  forms  of  party  strife ; 

Ring  in  the  nobler  modes  of  life. 
With  sweeter  manners,  purer  laws. 

V. 

Ring  out  the  want,  the  care,  the  sin, 
The  faithless  coldness  af  the  times  : 
Ring  out,  ring  out  my  mournful  rhymes, 

But  ring  the  fuller  minstrel  in. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  22} 

VI. 

RiDg  out  false  pride  in  place  and  blood, 

The  civic  slander  and  the  spite ; 

Ring  in  the  love  of  truth  and  right, 
Rin^  in  the  common  love  of  good. 

VII. 

Ring  out  old  shapes  of  foul  disease, 

Ring  out  the  narrowing  lust  of  gold ; 

Ring  out  the  thousand  wars  of  old, 
Ring  in  the  thousand  years  of  peace. 

VIII. 

Ring  in  the  valiant  man  and  free, 

The  larger  heart,  the  kindlier  hand ; 

Ring  out  the  darkness  of  the  land. 
Ring  in  the  Christ  that  is  to  be 


EXERCISE  LVIII. 

Robert  Pjllok  was  born  in  Renfrewshire,  Scotland,  in  the  year  1799. 
He  died  near  Southampton,  in  1827,  just  after  his  entrance  upon  duty,  as  a 
minister  in  the  Presbyterian  Church.  He  was  the  author  of  several  works 
both  in  prose  and  verse.  That,  however,  which  gave  him  his  chief  distinction, 
is  his  "  Course  of  Time :"  a  work  abounding  in  fine  passages  and  noble  senti- 
ments, but  clouded  to  excess  with  gloomy  reflection,  often  deficient  in  care  and 
polish,  and  oftener  still  inflated  in  style  and  diction.  Had  he  lived,  however, 
time  might  have  cured  these  defects,  and  brought  out  to  the  highest  advan- 
ta^e,  what  doubtless  he  had,  a  rare  combination  of  natural  endowments 

PASSAGES  FROM  POLLOR 


FRIENDS. 

Much  beautiful,  and  excellent,  and  fair 

Waa  seen  beneath  the  sun  ;  but  naught  was  seen 

More  beautiful  or  excellent,  or  fair 

Than  face  of  faithful  friend ;  fairest  when  seen 


BANDERS'     UNION    SERIES. 

In  darkest  day.     And  many  sounds  were  sweet, 
Most  ravishing,  and  pleasant  to  the  ear ; 
But  sweeter  none  than  voice  of  faithful  friend ; 
Sweet  always,  sweetest  heard  in  loudest  storm. 

II. 

THE  MISER. 

Of  all  God  made  upright, 
And  in  their  nostrils  breathed  a  living  soul. 
Most  fallen,  most  prone,  most  earthy,  most  debased. 
Of  all  that  sold  Eternity  for  Time, 
None  bargained  on  so  easy  terms  with  death. 
Illustrious  fool !  nay,  most  inhuman  wretch  1 
He  sat  among  his  bags,  and  with  a  look 
Which  hell  might  be  ashamed  of,  drove  the  poor 
Away  unalmsed ;  and  midst  abundance  died — 
Sorest  of  evils  !  died  of  utter  want. 

III. 

FAME. 

Of  all  the  phantoms  fleeting  in  the  mist 
Of  Time,  though  meager  all,  and  ghostly  thin, 
Most  unsubstantial,  unessential  shade, 
Was  earthly  Fame.     She  was  a  voice  alone ; 
And  dwelt  upon  the  noisy  tongues  of  men. 
She  never  thought ;  but  gabbled  ever  on ; 
Applauding  most  what  least  deserved  applause ; 
The  motive,  the  result,  was  naught  to  her : 
The  deed  alone,  though  dyed  in  human  gore. 
And  steeped  in  widows'  tears,  if  it  stood  out 
To  prominent  display,  she  talked  of  much. 
And  roared  around  it  with  a  thousand  tongues. 
As  changed  the  wind  her  organ,  so  she  changed 
Perpetually ,  and  whom  she  praised  to-day, 
Vexing  his  ear  with  acclamation  loud. 
To-morrow  blamed,  and  hissed  him  out  of  sight. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  223 

IV. 
FATE    OF   BYRON. 

Great  man  !  the  nations  gazed,  and  wondered  much, 

An  i  praised  :  and  many  called  his  evil  good. 

Wits  wrote  in  favor  of  his  wickedness : 

And  kings  to  do  him  honor  took  delight 

Thus  full  of  titles,  flattery,  honor,  fame : 

Beyond  desire,  beyond  ambition  full. 

He  died.     He  died  of  what?  of  wretchedness. 

Drank  every  cup  of  joy,  heard  every  trump 

Of  fame ;  drank  early,  deeply  drank,  drank  draughts 

That  common  millions  might  have  quenched — then  died 

Of  thirst,  because  there  was  no  more  to  drink. 

His  goddess.  Nature,  wooed,  embraced,  enjoyed, 

Fell  from  his  arms,  abhorred  j  his  passions  died ; 

Died  all,  but  dreary,  solitary  pride ; 

And  all  his  sympathies  in  being  died. 

V. 

THE   WANT   ABOVE   ALL   OTHER   WANTS. 
I. 

There  was  another,  large  of  understanding, 
Of  memory  infinite,  of  judgment  deep ; 
Who  knew  all  learning,  and  all  science  knew ; 
And  all  phenomena,  in  heaven  and  earth, 
Traced  to  their  causes;  traced  the  labyrinths 
Of  thought,  association,  passion,  will; 
And  all  the  subtle  nice  affinities 
Of  matter  traced ;  its  virtues,  motions,  laws ; 
And  most  familiarly  and  deeply  talked 
Of  mental,  moral,  natural,  divine. 

II. 

Leaving  the  earth  at  will,  he  soared  to  heaven, 
And  read  the  glorious  visions  of  the  skies ; 
And  to  the  music  of  the  rolling  spheres 


224  SANDERS'     UNION    SERIES. 

Intelligently  listened ;  and  gazed  far  back 
In  the  awful  depths  of  Deity ; 
Did  all  that  mind  assisted  most  could  do ; 
And  yet  in  misery  lived,  in  misery  died, 
Because  he  wanted  holiness  of  heart. 


EXERCISE  LIX. 
THE  DEAD  MOTHER. 

AHCR. 

Father.  Touch  not  thy  mother,  boy.     Thou  canst  not  wake 
her. 

Child.  Why,  father  ?     She  still  wakens  at  this  hour. 

F.  Your  mother's  dead,  my  child. 

0.  And  what  is  dead  ? 

If  she  be  dead,  why,  then,  His  only  sleeping; 
For  I  am  sure  she  sleeps.     Come,  mother, — rise  : — 
Her  "hand  is  very  cold  I 

F.  Her  heart  is  cold. 

Her  limbs  are  bloodless ;  would  that  mine  were  so  I 

C.  If  she  would  waken,  she  would  soon  be  warm. 
Why  is  she  wrapped  iu  this  thin  sheet  ?     If  I, 
This  winter  morning,  were  not  covered  better, 
I  should  be  cold  like  her. 

F.  No,  not  like  her : 

The  fire  might  warm  you,  or  thick  clothes ;  but  her — 
Nothing  can  warm  again  ! 

C.  If  I  could  wake  her, 

She  would  smile  on  me,  as  she  always  does. 
And  kiss  me. — Mother,  you  have  slept  too  long. 
Her  face  is  pale ;  and  it  would  frighten  me. 
But  that  I  know  she  loves  me. 

F.  Come,  my  child. 

G.  Once^  when  I  sat  upon  her  lap,  I  felt 
A  beating  at  her  side ,  and  then  she  said 


RHETORICAL    READER.  225 

It  was  her  heart  that  beat,  and  bade  me  feel 
For  mj  own  heart,  and  they  both  beat  alike, 
Only  mine  was  the  quickest.     And  I  feel 
My  own  heart  yet;  but  hers  I  cannot  feel. 

F.  Child,  child,  you  drive  me  mad.     Come  hence,  1 1  ly. 

C  Nay,  father,  be  not  angry ;  let  me  stay  here 
Till  my  mother  wakens. 

F.  I  have  told  you, 

Four  mother  cannot  wake — not  in  this  world; 
But  in  another  she  loill  wake  for  us. 
When  we  have  slept  like  her,  then  we  shall  see  her. 

C.  Would  it  were  night  then  ! 

F.  No,  unhappy  child  j 

Full  many  a  night  shall  pass,  ere  thou  canst  sleep 
That  last,  long  sleep.     Thy  father  soon  shall  sleep  it; 
Then  wilt  thou  be  deserted  upon  earth : 
None  will  regard  thee  j  thou  wilt  soon  forget 
That  thou  hadst  natural  ties, — an  orphan,  lone, 
Abandoned  to  the  wiles  of  wicked  men, 
And  women  still  more  wicked. 

C.  Father,  father, 

Why  do  you  look  so  terribly  upon  me  ? 
Tou  will  not  hurt  me 't 

F.  Hurt  thee,  darling  ?  no  I 
Has  sorrow's  violence  so  much  of  anger. 

That  it  should  fright  my  boy  ?     Come,  dearest,  come. 

G.  You  are  not  angry,  then  ? 

F.  Too  well  I  love  you, 

C.  All  you  have  said  I  can  not  now  remember, 

Nor  what  it  meant,  you  terrified  me  so ; 

But  this,  I  know,  you  told  me, — I  must  sleep 

Before  my  mother  wakens ;  so,  to-morrow — 

Oh  I  father,  that  to-morrow  were  but  come  I 


J22(5  SANDERS'     UNION    SERIES. 


EXERCISE  LX. 

Charles  Gt.  Eastman,  an  American  poet  and  journalist,  was  born  in 
Fryeburg,  Maine,  in  the  year  1816.  He  has  been  a  large  contributor  to 
various  periodicals,  and  his  poems  have  gained  him  no  small  reputation. 

A  DiRQE  is  a  hymn  for  the  dead,  or  a  funeral  song.  The  word  ig 
most  probably  a  contraction  from  Diriqe,  which  is  the  first  word  in  the 
line  Dirige,  Domine  Deus!  [Direct  us,  0  Lord  God!)  which  forms  part 
rf  an  old  Latin  funeral  service. 

DIRGE. 

OHARLKS  O.  lASniAS 
I. 

Softly! 

She  is  lying 

With  her  lips  apart. 

Softly! 

She  is  dying 

Of  a  broken  heart. 

II. 

Whisper  ! 
She  is  going 
To  her  final  rest. 
Whisper  ! 
Life  is  growing 
Dim  within  her  breast. 

III. 

Gently! 
She  is  sleeping; 
She  has  breathed  her  last. 
Gently  ! 
While  you  are  weeping, 
She  to  Heaven  has  passed  I 


RHETORICAL    READER.  227 


EXERCISE  LXI. 


Belshazzae  is  the  name  given  in  the  Book  of  Daniel  to  the  last  king 
of  the  Chaldees,  during  whose  reign  Babylon  was  taken  by  the  Medea 
and  Persians.  Out  of  the  striking  account  of  his  impious  feast,  found 
fn  tlie  fifth  chapter  of  that  Book,  Procter  has  made  the  following 
spirited  piece.  For  a  Note  on  Procter,  better  known  as  Barry  Corn- 
wall, see  Exercise  XXXVIII. 

OVERTHROW  OF  BELSHAZZAR. 

BAKBT  OORITWAU. 
I. 

Belshazzar  is  king  !  lielshazzar  is  lord  ! 
And  a  thousand  dark  nobles  all  bend  at  his  board ; — 
Fruits  glisten,  flowers  blossom,  meats  steam,  and  a  flood 
Of  the  wine  that  man  loveth,  runs  redder  than  blood : 
Wild  dancers  are  there,  and  a  riot  of  mirth. 
And  the  beauty  that  maddens  the  passions  of  earth ; 
And  the  crowds  all  shout, 
Till  the  vast  roofs  ring, — 
"  All  praise  to  Belshazzar,  Belshazzar  the  king !" 

II. 
**  Bring  forth,"  cries  the  monarch,  "  the  vessels  of  gold, 
Which  my  father  tore  down  from  the  temples  of  old : 
Bring  forth;  and  we'll  drink,  while  the  trumpets  are  blown, 
To  the  gods  of  bright  silver,  of  gold,  and  of  stone : 
Bring  forth  !" — and  before  him  the  vessels  all  shine. 
And  he  bows  unto  Baal,  and  he  drinks  the  dark  wine ; 

While  the  trumpets  bray. 

And  the  cymbals  ring, — 
"  Praise,  praise  to  Belshazzar,  Belshazzar  the  king  i'* 

III. 

Now^  what  cometh  ? — look,  look  ! — Without  menace,  or  call, 
Who  writes,  with  the  lightning's  bright  hand,  on  the  wall  ? 
What  pierceth  the  king,  like  the  point  of  a  dart  ? 
What  drives  the  bold  blood  from  his  cheek  to  his  heart? 


228  SANDERS'     UNION     SERIES. 

"  Chaldeans  !  magicians  !  the  letters  expound  !" 

They  are  read ; — and  Belshazzar  is  dead  on  the  ground  I 

Hark  ! — the  Persian  is  come, 

On  a  conqueror's  wing ; 
And  a  Medo's  on  the  throne  of  Belshazzar  the  king  I 


EXERCISE  LXIl. 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  was  born  in  Cambridge,  Mass.,  August  29tl\, 
1809.  In  1832  he  went  to  Europe  to  pursue  the  study  of  medicine,  where 
he  spent  some  years  in  attendance  on  the  great  hospitals.  In  1838  he  was 
appointed  Professor  of  Anatomy  and  Physiology  in  Dartmouth  College, 
and,  in  1847,  he  was  chosen  to  fill  the  same  oflSce  in  the  medical  college  of 
Harvard  University.  His  chief  distinction,  however,  is  that  of  an  author  - 
bis  productions,  both  in  prose  and  poetry,  having  given  him  a  very  elevated 
rank  in  the  world  of  letters.  As  a  writer  of  songs  and  lyric  poems,  he  has 
few  superiors.  His  papers,  first  published  in  "  The  Atlantic  Monthly"  under 
the  title — "The  Actocrat  op  the  Breakpast  Table,"  furnish  some  very 
rare  and  racy  reading:  mingling,  in  pleasant  proportions,  wit,  humor,  pathos, 
fancy,  fact,  keen  discernment,  large  information,  and  great  felicity  of  style 
and  diction.     The  following  excerpts  are  from  several  of  these  papers. 

Excerpts  (Ex,  out,  and  Cekpt,  plucked)  are  pieces /»ZMc^erf  out  of  their 
proper  places  in  an  author's  work,  and  presented  separately ;  extracts. 

EXCERPTS 
FROM    THE   AUTOCRAT   OF   THE   BREAKFAST   TABLE. 

OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMU. 
I. 

I  really  believe  some  people  save  their  bright  thoughts  as 
being  too  precious  for  conversation.  What  do  you  think  an 
admiring  friend  said  the  other  day  to  one  that  was  talking  good 
things, — good  enough  to  print?  "  Why/' said  he,  "you  are 
wasting  merchantable  literature,  a  cash  article,  at  the  rate,  as 
nearly  as  I  can  tell,  oi'  fifty  dollars  an  hour!"  The  talker  took 
him  to  the  window,  and  asked  him  to  look  out  and  tell  him 
what  he  saw. 

"  Nothing  but  a  very  dusty  street,"  he  said  "  and  a  xuao 
driving  a  sprinkling-machine  through  it." 


RHETORICAL    READER.  229 


"Why  don't  you  tell  the  man  he  is  wasting  that  water? 
What  would  be  the  state  of  the  highways  of  life,  if  we  did  not 
drive  owx  thovyht-sprinklers  through  them  with  the  valves  open, 
sometimes  V 

II. 

Besides,  there  is  another  thing  about  this  talking,  which 
you  forget.  It  shapes  our  thoughts  for  us  j — the  waves  of  con- 
fyrsation  roll  them  as  the  surf  rolls  the  pebbles  on  the  shore, 
fjet  me  iBodify  the  image  a  little.  I  rough  out  my  thoughts  in 
taJk^  aa  ac  artist  models  in  day.  Spoken  language  is  so  plastic, 
you  can  pat  and  coax,  and  spread  and  shave,  and  rub  out,  and 
fill  up,  and  stick  on,  so  easily,  when  you  work  that  soft  material, 
that  there  is  nothing  like  it  for  modeling.  Out  of  it  come  the 
shapes  which  you  turn  into  marble  or  bronze  in  yourjmmortal 
books,  if  you  happen  to  write  such.  Or,  to  use  another  illustra- 
tion, writing  or  printing  is  like  shooting  with  a  rifle ;  you  may 
hit  your  reader's  mind  or  miss  it, — but  talking  is  like  playing 
at  a  mark  with  the  pipe  of  an  engine ;  if  it  is  within  reach,  and 
you  have  time  enough,  you  can't  help  hitting  it. 

III. 

The  company  agreed  that  this  last  illustration  was  c  "  superior 
excellence,  or,  in  the  phrase  used  by  them,  "  Fust  rate."  I 
acknowledged  the  compliment,  but  gently  rebuked  the  expres- 
sion. ^^Fust  rate"  '■^  prime"  "  a  prime  article"  "  a  superior 
piece  of  goods"  "a  handsome  garment"  "a  gent  in  a  flowered 
vest" — all  such  expressions  are  final. 

There  is  one  other  phrase  which  will  soon  come  to  be  decisive 
of  a  man's  social  status*  if  it  is  not  already :  "  That  tells  the 
whole  story  "  It  is  an  expression  which  vulgar  and  conceited 
people  particularly  affect,  and  which  well-meaning  ones,  who 
know  better,  catch  from  them.  It  is  intended  to  stop  all  debate, 
like  the  previous  question  in  the  General  Court.  Only  it  don't, 
simply  because  ''  that"  does  not  usually  tell  the  whole,  nor  oda 
half  of  the  whole  story. 

*  Sta^tuiy  position. 


23U  SANDERS'     UNION     SERIES. 

IV. 

I  think  there  is  oue  habit, — I  said  to  our  compaDy  a  day  oi 
two  afterwards, — worse  than  that  of  punning.  It  is  the  gradual 
substitution  of  cant  or  Jiash  terms  for  words  which  characterize 
their  object.  1  have  known  several  very  genteel  idiots  whose 
whole  vocabulary  had  deliquesced  into  some  half  dozen  expres- 
sions All  things  fell  into  one  of  two  great  categories, — fast  or 
dew.  Man's  chief  end  was  to  be  a  brick.  When  the  great 
calamities  of  life  overtook  their  friends,  these  last  were  spoken 
of,  as  being  a  good  deal  cut  up.  Nine-tenths  of  human  exist- 
ence were  summed  up  in  the  single  word,  hore.  These  expres 
sions  come  to  be  algebraic  symbols  of  minds  which  have  grown 
too  weak  or  indolent  to  discriminate.  They  are  the  blank 
checks  of  intellectual  bankruptcy ; — you  may  fill  them  up  with 
what  idea  you  like ;  it  makes  no  difference ;  for  there  are  no 
funds  in  the  treasury  upon  which  they  are  drawn. 

The  young  fellow  called  John  spoke  up  sharply  and  said  it 
was  ^^rum"  to  hear  me  ^^pitchin'  into  fellers"  for  ^^goin'  it  in  the 
slang  line"  when  /used  all  the  flash  words  myself  just  when  I 
pleased. 

I  replied  with  my  usual  forbearance  ! 

y. 

The  business  of  conversation  is  a  very  serious  matter.  There 
are  men  that  it  weakens  one  to  talk  with  an  hour,  more  than  a 
day's  fasting  would  do.  Mark  this  that  I  am  going  to  say ;  for 
it  is  as  good  as  a  working  professional  man's  advice,  and  costs 
you  nothing. 

There  are  men  of  esprit*  who  are  excessively  exhausting  to 
some  people.  They  are  the  talkers  that  have  what  may  be 
called  Jerk^  minds.  Their  thoughts  do  not  run  in  the  natural 
order  of  sequence.  They  say  bright  things  on  all  possible 
subjects,  but  their  zigzags  rack  you  to  death.  After  a  jolting 
half  hour  with  one  of  these  jerky  companions,  talking  with  a 
lull  companion  affords  great  relief  It  is  like  taking  the  cat  in 
your  lap  after  holding  the  squirrel. 

*  Esprit  [is pre'],  wit;  genius. 


RHETORIOAL^EADER.  231 

VI. 

Talk  about  conceit  as  much  as  you  like ;  it  is  to  human  char- 
•cter  what  salt  is  to  the  ocean ;  it  keeps  it  sweet,  and  renders  it 
endurable. 

When  one  has  had  all  his  conceit  taken  out  of  him,  when  he 
has  lost  all  his  illusions,  his  feathers  will  soon  soak  through, 
and  he  will  fly  no  more. 

But  little-minded  people's  thoughts  move  in  such  small  circles, 
that  five  minutes'  conversation  gives  you  an  arc  long  enough  to 
determine  their  whole  curve. 

Even  in  common  people,  conceit  has  the  virtue  of  making 
thim  cheerful;  the  man  who  thinks  his  wife,  his  baby,  his 
house,  his  horse,  his  dog,  and  himself  severally  unequaled,  is 
almost  sure  to  be  a  good-humored  person,  though  liable  to  be 
tedious  at  times. 

VII. 

I  will  tell  }'0u  what  I  have  found  spoil  more  good  talks  than 
anything  else; — long  arguments  on  especial  points  between 
people  who  differ  on  the  fundamental  principles  upon  which 
these  depend. 

No  men  can  have  satisfactory  relations  with  each  other  until 
they  have  agreed  on  certain  ultimata'^  of  belief  not  to  be  dis- 
turbed in  ordinary  conversation,  and,  unless  they  have  sense 
enough  to  trace  the  secondary  questions  depending  on  the 
ultimate  beliefs  to  their  source. 

VIII. 

Don't  flitter  yourselves  that  friendship  authorizes  you  to  say 
disagreeable  things  to  your  intimates.  On  the  contrary,  the 
nearer  you  come  into  relation  with  a  person,  the  more  necessary 
do  tact  and  courtesy  become.  Except  in  cases  of  necessity, 
vhich  are  rare,  leave  your  friend  to  learn  unpleasant  truths 
^rom  his  enemies ;  they  are  ready  enough  to  tell  them.  Good- 
breeding  never  forgets  that  self-love  is  universal.  When  you 
r<iad  the  story  of  the  Archbishop  and  Gil  Bias,  you  may  laugh, 

*  UUimaUa,  final  conditions  or  propositions. 


232  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES. 

if  you  will,  at  the  poor  old  man's  delusion;  but  don't  forget 
that  the  youth  was  the  greater  fool  of  the  two,  and  that  his 
master  served  such  a  booby  rightly  in  turning  him  out  of  doors. 

IX. 

I  always  believed  in  life  rather  than  in  hooks.  I  suppose 
every  day  of  earth,  with  its  hundred  thousand  deaths  and 
Bometling  more  of  births, — with  its  loves  and  hates,  its  tri- 
umphb  and  defeats,  its  pangs  and  blisses,  has  more  of  humanity 
in  it  than  all  the  books  that  were  ever  written  put  together.  I 
believe  the  flowers,  growing  at  this  moment,  send  up  more  fra- 
grance to  heaven  than  was  ever  exhaled  from  all  the  essencet 
ever  distilled. 

DoiiH  I  read  up  various  matters  to  talk  about  at  this  table  or 
elsewhere?  No;  that  is  the  last  thing  I  would  do.  I  will  tell 
you  my  rule.  Talk  about  those  subjects  you  have  had  long  in 
your  mind,  and  listen  to  what  others  say  about  subjects  you 
have  studied  but  recently.  Knowledge  and  timber  shouldn't  be 
much  used  till  they  are  seasoned 


EXERCISE  LXIII. 

John  Pierpont,  an  American  poet  and  clergyman,  was  born  in  Litchfield, 
Connecticut,  in  the  year  1785.  His  longest  poem,  "The  Airs  op  Palestink," 
was  published  in  1816.  He  has  written  much,  and  is  deservedly  ranked 
among  the  best  of  American  poets. 

NOT  ON  THE  BATTLE-FIELD. 

JOHN  PIEBFONT. 
I. 

O,  no,  no — let  me  lie 
Not  on  a  field  of  battle,  when  I  die ! 

Let  not  the  iron  tread 
Of  the  mad  war-horse  crush  my  helmed  head : 

Nor  let  the  reeking  knife, 
That  I  have  drawn  against  a  brother's  life, 


RHETORICAL    READER.  238 

Be  in  my  hand,  when  Death 
Thunders  along,  and  tramples  me  beneath 

His  heavy  squadron's  heels, 
Or  gory  felloes  of  his  cannon's  wheels. 

n. 

From  such  a  dying  bed, 
Though  o'er  it  float  the  stripes  of  white  and  red, 

And  the  bald  Eagle  brings 
The  clustered  stars  upon  his  wide-spread  wings, 

To  sparkle  \u  my  sight, 
O,  never  let  my  spirit  take  her  flight  1 

III. 

I  know  that  beauty's  eye 
Is  all  the  brighter  where  gay  pennants  fly, 

And  brazen  helmets  dance, 
And  sunshine  flashes  on  the  lifted  lance: 

I  know  that  bards  have  sung 
And  people  shouted  till  the  welkin  rung, 

In  honor  of  the  brave 
Who  on  the  battle-field  have  found  a  grave ; 

I  know  that  o'er  their  bones 
Have  grateful  hands  piled  monumental  stones. 

IV. 

Such  honors  grace  the  bed, 
I  know,  whereon  the  warrior  lays  his  head, 

And  hears,  as  life  ebbs  out, 
The  conquered  flying,  and  the  conqueror's  shout 

But,  as  his  eyes  grow  dim, 
What  is  a  column  or  a  mound  to  him  ? 

What  to  the  parting  soul, 
The  mellow  note  of  bugles  ?     Wfiat  the  roll 

Of  drums  ?  No !  let  me  die 
Where  the  blue  heaven  bends  o'er  me  lovingly 


2.^1  SANDERS'     UNION    SERIES. 

V. 

And,  in  ray  dying  hour, 
When  riches,  fame,  and  honor  have  no  power 

To  bear  the  spirit  up, 
Or  from  my  lips  to  turn  aside  the  cup 

That  all  must  drink  at  last, 
0,  let  me  draw  refreshment  from  the  past  I 

Then  let  my  soul  run  back, 
With  peace  and  joy,  along  my  earthly  track, 

And  see  that  all  the  seeds 
That  I  have  scattered  there,  in  virtuous  deeds, 

Have  sprung  up  and  have  given 
Already  fruits  of  which  to  taste  is  Heaven  I 

VI. 

And,  though  no  grassy  mound 
Or  granite  pile  say  'tis  heroic  ground 

Where  my  remains  repose, 
Still  will  I  hope — vain  hope,  perhaps ! — that  those 

Whom  I  have  striven  to  bless, 
The  wanderer  reclaimed,  the  fatherless, 

May  stand  arouud  my  grave 
With  the  poor  prisoner,  and  the  poorer  slave. 

And  breathe  a  humble  prayer, 
That  they  may  die  like  him  whose  bones  are  moldering 
there. 


EXERCISE  LXIV. 

John  Iobin  was  born  in  Salisbury,  England,  in  the  year  1770.  He  die! 
In  l'J04.  "He  passed,"  says  Mrs.  Inchbald,  "many  years  in  the  antioua 
labor  of  writing  plays,  which  were  rejected  by  the  managers;  and  no  sooner 
had  they  accepted  *  The  Hojiey-Moon,'  than  he  died,  and  never  enjoyed  the 
recompense  of  seeing  it  performed."  The  Honey-Moon,  however,  from  which 
we  take  the  following  dialogue,  proved  a  splendid  success.  The  scene  is  laid 
in  Spain.  The  Duke  of  Aranza,  after  marrying  Juliana,  the  proud  and 
pretty  daughter  of  an  humble  artist,  takes  her  to  a  cottage  in  the  country. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  235 

pretending  that  he  himself  is  but  a  poor  peasant,  though  he  had  -mooed  her 
in  the  character  of  a  duke.  The  proud  Juliana,  after  a  struggle,  yields,  and 
the  husband  having  gained  his  object,  which  was  to  tame  her  haughty  spiritt 
discloses  his  true  rank,  and  conducts  his  bride  to  his  palace. 

SCENE  FROM  THE  HONEY-MOON. 

JOHN  TOBar. 

Balthazar,  a7id  Volante,  sister  of  J vlian a. 

Balthazar.  Not  yet  appareled  ? 

Volante.  'Tis  her  wedding  day,  sir  j 
On  such  occasions  women  claim  some  grace. 

Bal.  How  bears  she 
The  coming  of  her  greatness  ? 

Vol.  Bravely,  sir. 
Instead  of  the  high  honors  that  await  her, 
I  think  that,  were  she  now  to  be  enthroned, 
She  would  become  her  coronation  ; 
For,  when  she  has  adjusted  some  stray  lock, 
Or  fixed,  at  last,  some  sparkling  ornament, 
She  views  her  beauty  with  collected  pride, 
Musters  her  whole  soul  in  her  eyes,  and  says, — 
*'  Look  I  not  like  an  empress  ?" — But  she  comes. 

Enter  Juliana,  in  her  wedding  dress. 

Juliana.  Well,  sir,  what  think  you  ?     Do  I  to  the  life 
Appear  a  duchess,  or  will  people  say. 
She  does  but  poorly  play  a  part  which  nature 
Never  designed  her  for  ? — But,  where's  the  duke  ? 

Bal.  Not  come  yet. 

Jul.  How  ?  not  come  ? — the  duke  not  come  ? 

Vol.  Patience,  sweet  sister ;  oft,  without  a  murmur, 
[t  has  been  his  delight  to  wait  for  you. 

Jul.  It  was  his  duty.^Man  was  born  to  wait 
On  woman,  and  attend  her  sovereign  pleasure  I 
This  tardiness  upon  his  wedding-day 
Is  but  a  sorry  sample  of  obedience 

Bal.  Obedience,  girl? 

Jul.  Ay,  sir,  obedience  I 


236  SANDERS'     UNION    SERIES. 

Vol.  Wliy,  what  a  wire-drawn  puppet  you  will  make 
The  man  you  marry ! — I  suppose,  ere  long, 
You'll  choose  how  often  he  shall  walk  abroad 
For  recreation ;  fix  his  diet  for  him ; 
Bespeak  his  clothes,  and  say  on  what  occasions 
He  may  put  on  his  finest  suit — 

Jul.  Proceed. 

Vol.  Keep  all  the  keys,  and,  when  he  bids  his  friends, 
Mete  out  a  modicum  of  wine  to  each. 
Had  you  not  better  put  him  in  a  livery 
At  once,  and  let  him  stand  behind  your  chair  ? 
Why,  I  would  rather  wed  a  man  of  dough. 
Such  as  some  school-girl,  when  the  pie  is  made, 
To  amuse  her  childish  fancy,  kneads  at  hazard 
Out  of  the  remnant  paste, — a  paper  man, 
Cut  by  a  baby  !     Heaven    preserve  me  ever 
From  that  dull  blessing — an  obedient  husband  I 

Jul.  And  make  you  an  obedient  wife  ! — A  thing 
For  lordly  man  to  vent  his  humors  on ; 
A  dull  domestic  drudge,  to  be  abused. 
"  If  you  think  so,  my  dear  ',**  and,  "  As  you  please  j" 
And,  "  You  know  best;" — even  when  he  nothing  knows. 
I  have  no  patience — that  a  free-born  woman 
Should  sink  the  high  tone  of  her  noble  nature. 
Down  to  a  slavish  whisper,  for  that  compound 
Of  frail  mortality,  they  call  a  man. 
And  give  her  charter  up  to  make  a  tyrant ! 

Bal.  You  talk  it  most  heroically.     Pride 
May  be  a  proper  bait  to  catch  a  lover. 
But,  trust  me,  daughter,  'twill  not  hold  a  husband. 

Jul.  Leave  that  to  me ; — and  what  should  I  have  caught. 
If  I  had  fished  with  your  humility  ? 
Some  pert  apprentice,  or  rich  citizen, 
Who  would  have  bought  me ;  some  poor  gentleman. 
Whose  high  patrician  blood  would  have  descended 
To  wed  a  painter's  daughter  and — her  ducats  ! 
I  felt  my  value,  and  still  kept  aloof; 


RHETORICAL    READER. 


237 


iVor  stopped  my  eye  till  I  had  met  the  man, 
Picked  from  all  Spain,  to  be  my  husband,  girl  j 
And  him  I  have  so  managed,  that  he  feels 
I  have  conferred  an  honor  on  his  house, 
Hy  coyly  condescending  to  be  his. 

Bal.  He  comes. 

Vol.  Smooth  your  brow,  sister. 

Jul.  For  a  man  ! 
Dt  must  be  one  not  made  of  mortal  clay,  then. 

Enter  the  DuKE. 
0  !  you  are  come,  sir  ?     I  have  waited  for  you ! — 
Is  this  your  gallantry  ?  at  such  a  time,  too  ? 

Duke.  I  do  entreat  your  pardon  j — if  you  knew 
The  pressing  cause — 

Vol.  Let  me  entreat  for  him. 

Bal.  Come,  girl,  be  kind  ! 

Jul.  Well,  sir,  you  are  forgiven. 

Duke.  You  are  all  goodness ;  let  me  on  this  hand — 

[  Taking  her  hand,  which  she  withdrcnes. 

Jul.  Not  yet,  sir  ! — 'tis  a  virgin  hand  as  yet, 
And  my  own  property ; — forbear  awhile, 
And,  with  this  humble  person,  'twill  be  yours. 

Duke.  Exquisite  modesty  ! — Come,  let  us  on  I 
All  things  are  waiting  for  the  ceremony  j 
And,  till  you  grace  it.  Hymen's  wasting  torch 
Burns  dim  and  sickly. — Come,  my  Juliana. 

\_Scene  after  the  marriage. — Enter  the  DuKE,  leading  in  JuLIANA.] 

Duke.  \_Brings  a  chair  forward,  and  sits  down.J     You  are 
welcome  home. 

Juliana    Home  !     You  are  merry ! — this  retired  spox 
Would  be  a  palace  for  an  owl ! 

Duke.  'Tis  ours. 

Jul.  Ay,  for  the  time  we  stay  in  it. 

Duke.  Madam, 
Lhis  is  the  noble  mansion  that  I  spoke  of  I 


238  SANDERS'     UNION    SF4RIES. 

Jul.  This ! — You  are  Qot  in  earnest,  though  you  bear  it 
With  such  a  sober  brow.     Come,  come,  you  jest ! 

Duke.  Indeed,  I  jest  not;  were  it  ours  in  jest, 
We  should  have  none,  wife. 

Jul.  Are  you  serious,  sir  ? 

Duhe.  As  true,  as  I'm  your  husband,  and  no  duke. 

Jul.  No  duke? 

Duke.  But  of  my  own  creation,  lady. 

Jul.  Am  I  betrayed  ? — Nay,  do  not  play  the  fool  I 
It  is  too  keen  a  joke. 

Duke.  You'll  find  it  true. 

Jul.  You  are  no  duke,  then  ? 

Duke.  None. 

Jul.  Have  I  been  cozened '/ 
And  have  you  no  estate,  sir, — 
No  palaces  nor  houses  ? 

Dulce.  None  but  this  : — 
A  small  snug  dwelling,  and  in  good  repair. 

Jul.  Nor  money,  nor  effects  ? 

Duke.  None  that  I  know  of. 

Jul.  And  the  attendants  who  have  waited  on  us — 

Duke.  They  were  my  friends ;  who,  having  done  my  business, 
Are  gone  about  their  own. 

Jul.  Why,  then,  'tis  clear. 
That  I  was  ever  born  ! — What  are  you,  sir  ? 

Duke.  \^Rises.~\  I  am  an  honest  man, — that  may  content  you 
Young,  nor  ill-favored, — should  not  that  content  you  ? 
T  am  your  husband,  and  that  must  content  you. 

Jul.  I  will  go  home  I  ,  [^Going 

Duhe.  You  are  at  home  already,  [^Staying  \(r 

Jul.  I'll  not  endure  it  I — But  remember  this — 
Duke,  or  no  duke,  I'll  be  a  duchess,  sir ! 

Duke.  A  duchess  I     You  shall  be  a  queen, — to  all 
Who,  by  the  courtesy,  will  call  you  so. 

Jul.  And  I  will  have  attendance  ! 

Duke.  So  you  shall, — 
When  you  have  learned  to  wait  upon  yourself. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  2SK 

Jul.  To  wait  upon  myself!  Must  I  bear  this? 
I  could  tear  out  my  eyes,  that  bade  you  woo  me, 
And  bite  my  tongue  in  two,  for  saying  yes ! 

Duke.  And,  if  you  should,  'twould  grow  again. 
I  think,  to  be  an  honest  yeoman's  wife 
(For  such,  my  would-he  duchess,  you  will  find  me) 
Yt>u  were  cut  out  by  nature. 

Jul.   You  will  find,  then. 
That  education,  sir,  has  spoilt  me  for  it. 
Why  !  do  you  think  I'll  work  ? 

Duke.  I  think  'twill  happen,  wife. 

Jul.  What !     Rub  and  scrub 
Your  noble  palace  clean  ? 

Duke.  Those  taper  fingers 
Will  do  it  aamtily. 

Jul.  And  dress  your  victuals  ? 
(If  there  be  any). — 0  !  I  could  go  mad  I  ' 

Duke.  And  mend  my  hose,  and  darn  my  nightcaps  neatly; 
Wait,  like  an  echo,  till  you're  spoken  to — 

Jul.  Or,  like  a  clock,  talk  only  once  an  hour? 

Duke.  Or,  like  a  dial;  for  that  quietly 
Performs  its  work,  and  never  speaks  at  all. 

Jul.  To  feed  your  poultry  and  your  hogs  ! — 0,  monstr«'u8l 
And,  when  I  stir  abroad,  on  great  occasions, 
Carry  a  squea}£:ing  tithe-pig  to  the  vicar ; 
Or  jolt  with  higgler's  wives  the  market  trot, 
To  sell  your  eggs  and  butter ! 

Duke.  Excellent ! 
How  well  you  sum  the  duties  of  a  wife ! 
Why,  what  a  blessing  I  shall  have  in  you  I 

Jul.  A  blessing ! 

Duke.  When  they  talk  of  you  and  me. 
Darby  and  Joan  shall  no  more  be  remembered  j 
We  shall  be  happy  I 

Jul    Shall  we? 

Duke.  Wondrous  happy ! 
0,  you  will  make  an  admirable  wife  I 


840  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES. 

Jul.  I'll  make  a  vixen  I 

Duke.  What? 

Jul.  A  very  vixen  ! 

Duke.  0,  no  !     We*  11  have  no  vixens. 

Jul.  ril  not  bear  it  I 
I'll  to  my  father's  ! — 

Duke.  Gently  J  you  forget 
You  are  a  perfect  stranger  to  the  road. 

Jul.  My  wrongs  will  find  a  way,  or  make  one  \ 

Duke.  Softly! 
You  stir  not  henoe,  except  to  take  the  air ; 
And  then  I'll  breathe  it  with  you. 

Jul.  What ! — confine  me  ? 

Duke.  'Twould  be  unsafe  to  trust  you  yet  abroMl. 

Jul.  Am  I  a  truant  schoolboy  ? 

Duke.  Nay,  not  so  j 
But  you  must  keep  your  bounds. 

Jul.  And,  if  I  break  them, 
Perhaps,  you'll  beat  me. 

Duke.  Beat  you ! 
The  man  that  lays  his  hand  upon  a  woman, 
Save  in  the  way  of  kindness,  is  a  wretch 
Whom  'twere  gross  flattery  to  name  a  coward. 
I'll  talk  to  you,  lady,  but  not  heat  you. 

Jul.  Well,  if  I  may  not  travel  to  my  father, 
I  may  write  to  him,  surely  ! — And  I  will — 
If  I  can  meet  within  your  spacious  dukedom, 
Three  such  unhoped-for  miracles,  at  once, 
As  pens,  and  ink,  and  paper. 

Duke.  You  will  find  them 
[n  the  next  room.     A  word  before  you  go. 
You  are  my  wife,  by  every  tie  that's  sacred ; 
The  partner  of  my  fortune  and — 

Jul.  Your  fortune  I 

Duke.  Peace  ! — No  fooling,  idle  woman  I 
Beneath  the  attesting  eye  of  Heaven  IVe  sworn 
To  love,  to  honor,  cherish,  and  protect  you. 


RHETOR/CAL    READER.  241 

No  human  power  can  part  us.     What  remains,  then  ? 

To  fret,  and  worry  and  torment  each  other, 

And  give  a  keener  edge  to  our  hard  fate, 

By  sharp  upbraidings,  and  perpetual  jars  ? — 

Or,  like  a  loving  and  a  patient  pair 

(Waked  from  a  dream  of  grandeur,  to  depend 

Upon  their  daily  labor  for  support), 

To  soothe  the  taste  of  fortune's  lowliness 

With  sweet  consent,  and  mutual  fond  endearment? 

Now  to  your  chamber, — write  whate'cr  you  please ; 

But  pause  before  you  stain  the  spotless  paper 

With  words  that  may  inflame,  but  cannot  heal ! 

Jul.  Why,  what  a  patient  worm  you  take  me  for  I 

Duke.  I  took  you  for  a  wife ;  and,  ere  I've  done, 
I'll  know  you  for  a  good  one. 

Jul.  You  shall  know  me 
For  a  right  woman,  full  of  her  own  sex ; 
Who,  when  she  suffers  wrong,  will  speak  her  anger; 
Who  feels  her  own  prerogative,  and  scorns, 
By  the  proud  reason  of  superior  man. 
To  be  taught  patience,  when  her  swelling  heart 
Cries  out  revenge  !  [^ExU. 

Duke.  Why,  let  the  flood  rage  on ! 
There  is  no  tide  in  woman's  wildest  passion 
But  hath  an  ebb. — I've  broke  the  ice,  however. 
Write  to  her  father  ! — She  may  write  a  folio ; 
But,  if  she  send  it ! — 'Twill  divert  her  spleen, 
The  flow  of  ink  may  save  her  blood-letting. 
Perchance  she  may  have  fits ! — They  are  seldom  mortal 
Save  when  the  doctor's  sent  for. 

I'hough  I  have  heard  some  husbands  say,  and  wisely, 
A  woman's  honor  is  her  safest  guard, 

Yei  there's  some  virtue  in  a  lock  and  key.  [^Locks  the  door 

So,  thus  begins  our  honey-moon. — 'Tis  well ! 
For  the  first  fortnight,  ruder  than  March  winds, 
She'll  blow  a  hurricane.     The  next,  perhaps, 
Like  April,  she  may  waar  a  changeful  face 
11  6R 


24£  SANDERS'    UNION     SERIES. 

Of  atorm  and  sunshine  j  and,  when  that  is  past, 

She  will  break  glorious  as  unclouded  Mayj 

And.  where  the  thorns  grew  bare,  the  spreading  blossoms 

Meet  with  no  lagging  frost  to  kill  their  sweetness. 

Whilst  others,  for  a  month's  delirious  joy, 

J^uy  a  dull  age  of  penance,  we,  more  wisely, 

Taste  first  the  wholesome  bitter  of  the  cup, 

That  after  to  the  very  lees  shall  relish ; 

And,  to  the  close  of  this  frail  life,  prolong 

The  pure  delights  of  a  well-governed  marriage. 


EXERCISE  LXV. 

The  story  so  charmingly  told  in  the  following  lines  of  Tennyson,  ici 
said  to  hare  had  a  foundation  in  the  actual  history  of  an  old  English 
family.  It  presents  a  scene  the  exact  opposite  of  that  in  the  Exercise 
preceding ;  seeing  that  here  an  humble,  unaspiring  spirit  is  suddenly 
surprised  into  social  position  and  circumstances  undesired  and  over- 
powering.    For  a  Note  on  Tennyson,  see  Exercise  LVIII. 

THE  LORD  OP  BURLEIGH. 

I. 

lu  her  ear  he  whispers  gayly, — 

"  If  my  heart  by  signs  can  tell, 
Maiden,  I  have  watched  thee  daily, 

And  I  think  thou  lov'st  me  well." 
She  replies,  in  accents  fainter, — 

"  There  is  none  I  love  like  thee." 
He  is  but  a  landscape  painter, 

And  a  village  maiden  she. 
He  to  lips,  that  fondly  falter. 

Presses  his,  without  reproof; 
Leads  her  to  the  village  altar, 

And  they  leave  her  father's  roof. 


RHETORTCAL     READER.  21-. 

"  I  can  make  no  marriage  present ; 

Little  can  I  give  my  wife ; 
Love  will  make  our  cottage  pleasant, 

And  I  love  thee  more  than  life." 

n. 

They,  by  parks  and  lodges  going, 

See  the  lordly  castles  stand ; 
Summer  woods,  about  them  blowing, 

Made  a  murmur  in  the  land. 
From  deep  thought  himself  he  rouses, 

Says  to  her  that  loves  him  well, — 
"  Let  us  see  these  handsome  houses, 

Where  the  wealthy  nobles  dwell/ 
So  she  goes,  by  him  attended, 

Hears  him  lovingly  converse. 
Sees  whatever  fair  and  splendid 

Lay  betwixt  his  home  and  hers  j 
Parks  with  oak  and  chestnut  shady, 

Parks  and  ordered  gardens  great; 
Ancient  homes  of  lord  and  lady. 

Built  for  pleasure  and  for  state. 

III. 

All  he  shows  her  makes  him  dearer; 

Evermore  she  seems  to  gaze 
On  that  cottage,  growing  nearer, 

Where  they  twain  will  spend  their  days. 
O,  but  she  will  love  him  truly ; 

He  shall  have  a  cheerful  home; 
She  will  order  all  things  duly, 

When  beneath  his  roof  they  come 
Thus  her  heart  rejoices  greatly, 

Till  a  gateway  she  discerns. 
With  armorial  bearings  stately. 

And  beneath  the  gate  she  turns, — 


244  BANDERS      UNION    SERIES. 

Sees  a  mansion  more  majestic 
Than  all  those  she  saw  before ; 

Many  a  gallant,  gay  domestic 
Bows  before  him  at  the  door. 


IV. 

And  they  speak  in  gentle  murmur, 

When  they  answer  to  his  call, 
While  he  treads  with  footstep  firmer, 

Leading  on  from  hall  to  hall. 
And,  while  now  she  wonders  blindly. 

Nor  the  meaning  can  divine, 
Proudly  turns  he  round,  and  kindly ,- 

"  All  of  this  is  mine  and  thine." 
Here  he  lives  in  state  and  bounty, 

Lord  of  Burleigh,  fair  and  freej 
Not  a  lord  in  all  the  county 

Is  so  great  a  lord  as  he. 
All  at  once  the  color  flushes 

Her  sweet  face,  from  brow  to  chin : 
As  it  were  with  shame  she  blushes, 

And  her  spirit  changed  within. 


Then  her  countenance  all  over 

Pale  again  as  death  did  prove ; 
But  he  clasped  her  like  a  lover. 

And  he  cheered  her  soul  with  love. 
So  she  strove  against  her  weakness, 

Though  at  times  her  spirit  sank ; 
Shaped  her  heart,  with  woman's  meekness, 

To  all  duties  of  her  rank : 
And  a  gentle  consort  made  he, 

And  her  gentle  mind  was  such, 
That  she  grew  a  noble  lady, 

And  the  people  loved  her  much. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  245 

VI. 

But  a  trouble  weighed  upon  her, 

And  perplexed  her  night  and  morn, 
With  the  burden  of  an  honor 

Unto  which  she  was  not  born 
Faint  she  grew,  and  ever  fainter, 

As  she  murmured, — "  0,  that  he 
Were  once  more  that  landscape  painter, 

Which  did  win  my  heart  from  me  !  " 
So  she  drooped  and  drooped  before  him, 

Fading  slowly  from  his  side ; 
Three  fair  children  first  she  bore  him, 

Then,  before  her  time,  she  died. 

VII. 

Weeping,  weeping  late  and  early. 

Walking  up  nnd  pacing  down, 
Deeply  mourned  the  Lord  of  Burleigh, 

Burleigh  House,  by  Stamford  town. 
And  he  came  to  look  upon  her, 

And  he  looked  at  her  and  said, — 
"  Bring  the  dress,  and  put  it  on  her. 

That  she  wore  when  she  was  wed." 
Then  her  people,  softly  treading. 

Bore  to  earth  her  body  dressed 
In  the  dress  that  she  was  wed  in, 

That  her  spirit  might  have  rest. 


EXERCISE  LXVl 

Jony  CnnvsosTOM  Mozart,  the  great  German  musical  composer,  was  bcra 
in  Saltzburg.  January  27th,  1756,  He  died  December  5th,  1791.  Even  in 
early  youth  he  discovered  wonderful  musical  talents,  which  were  afterwards 
brought  to  the  highest  pitch  of  cultivation.  His  last  and  greatest  composi- 
tion engaged  his  attention  in  the  very  day  of  his  death,  which  took  place 
under  the  following  affecting  circumstances. 


246  SANDERS'     UNION    SERIES. 

KEQirruM  signifies  rest;  the  name  being  taken  from  the  first  word 
of  an  old  Latin  service  for  the  repose  of  the  dead.  It  is,  therefore,  ft 
hymn  for  the  dead  or  in  honor  of  the  dead. 

LAST  MOMENTS  OP  MOZART. 

1.  A  few  months  before  the  death  of  the  celebrated  Mozart, 
a  mysterious  stranger  brought  him  an  anonymous*  letter,  in 
which  his  terms  for  a  requiem  were  required.  Mozart  gave 
them  Soon  after  the  messenger  returned,  and  paid  a  portion 
of  the  price  in  advance.  To  the  composition  of  this  requiem  he 
gave  the  full  strength  of  his  powers.  Failing  to  learn  the  name 
of  him  who  had  ordered  it,  his  fancy  soon  began  to  connect 
something  supernatural  with  the  affair.  The  conviction  seized 
him  that  he  was  composing  a  requiem  for  his  own  obsequies. 
While  engaged  in  this  work,  and  under  this  strange  inspiration, 
he  threw  himself  back,  says  his  biographer,  on  his  couch,  faint 
and  exhausted.  His  countenance  was  pale  and  emaciated;  yet 
there  was  a  strange  fire  in  his  eye,  and  the  light  of  gratified  joy 
on  his  brow  that  told  of  success. 

2.  His  task  was  finished,  and  the  melody,  even  to  his  ex- 
quisite sensibility,  was  perfect.  It  had  occupied  him  for  weeks ; 
and,  though  his  form  was  wasted  by  disease,  yet  the  spirit  seemed 
to  acquire  more  vigor,  and  already  claim  kindred  to  immortality ; 
for  oft,  as  the  sound  of  his  own  composition  stole  on  his  ear,  it 
bore  an  unearthly  sweetness  that  was  to  him  too  truly  a  warning 
of  his  future  and  fast  coming  doom. 

3.  Now  it  was  finished,  and,  for  the  first  time  for  many 
weeks,  he  sank  into  a  quiet  and  refreshing  slumber.  A  slight 
a):se  in  the  apartment  awoke  him,  when,  turning  towards  a  fair 
young  girl  who  entered, — "  Emilie,  my  daughter,"  said  he, 
"  come  near  to  me — my  task  is  over — the  requiem  is  finished 
My  requiem,"  he  added,  and  a  sigh  escaped  him. 

4.  "  Oh  !  say  not  so,  my  father,"  said  the  girl,  interrupting 
him,  as  tears  stood  in  her  eyes,  "  you  must  be  better,  you  look 
better,  for  even  now  your  cheek  has  a  glow  upon  it;  do  let  mo 

*  For  an  analysis  of  the  word  anonymous,  see  Sanders  &  McElligott's 
A.nalysis,  p.  88. 


RHK'lORfCAL     READER.  247 

bring  you  something  refreshing,  and  I  am  sure  we  will   nurse 
you  well  again." 

5.  "  Do  not  deceive  yourself,  my  love,"  said  he ;  "  this  wasted 
form  can  never  be  restored  by  human  aid.  From  Heaven's 
mercy  alone  can  I  hope  for  succor;  and  it  will  be  granted, 
Emilie,  in  the  time  of  my  utmost  need ;  yes,  in  the  hour  of 
deatli,  1  will  claim  His  help  who  is  always  ready  to  aid  those  who 
trust  in  Him ;  and  soon,  very  soon,  must  this  mortal  frame  be 
laid  in  its  quiet  sleeping  place,  and  this  restless  soul  return  to 
Him  who  gave  it." 

6.  The  dying  father  then  raised  himself  on  his  couch ; — ''  You 
spoke  of  refreshment,  my  daughter ;  it  can  still  be  aflforded  my 
fainting  soy  I.  Take  these  notes,  the  last  I  shnll  ever  pen,  and 
sit  down  to  the  instrument.  Sing  with  them  the  hymn  so 
beloved  by  your  mother,  and  let  me  once  more  hear  those  tones 
which  have  been  my  delight  since  my  earliest  remembrance." 

Emilie  did  as  she  was  desired ;  and  it  seemed  as  if  she  sought 
a  relief  from  her  own  thoughts ;  for,  after  running  over  a  few 
chords  of  the  piano,  she  commenced,  in  the  sweetest  voice,  the 
following  lines : 


Spirit !  thy  labor  is  o'er, 

Thy  term  of  probation  is  run, 
Thy  steps  are  now  bound  for  the  untrodden  shore, 

And  the  race  of  immortals  begun. 


Spirit !  look  not  on  the  strife 

Or  the  pleasures  of  earth  with  regret — 
Pause  not  on  the  threshold  of  limitless  life, 

To  mourn  for  the  day  that  is  set. 


Spirit !  no  fetters  can  bind, 

No  wicked  have  power  to  molest  ,• 
There  the  weary,  like  thee — the  wretched  shall  find, 

A  Heaven — a  mansion  of  rest. 


248  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES. 

IV. 
Spirit!  how  bright  is  the  road, 

For  which  thou  art  now  on  the  wing! 
Thy  home  it  will  be  with  thy  Savior  and  God, 

Their  loud  halleluiahs  to  sing ! 

7.  As  she  concluded  the  last  stanza,  she  dwelt  for  a  few 
moments  on  the  low,  melancholy  notes  of  the  piece,  and  then 
waited  in  silence  for  the  mild  voice  of  her  father's  praise.  He 
spoke  not  —  and,  with  something  like  surprise,  she  turned 
towards  him.  He  was  laid  back  on  the  sofa,  his  face  shaded  in 
part  by  his  hand,  and  his  form  reposing  as  if  in  slumber.  Start- 
ing with  fear,  Emilie  sprang  towards  him  and  seized  his  hand ; 
but  the  touch  paralyzed  her,  fbr  she  sank  senseless  by  his  side. 
He  was  (jone !  With  the  sound  of  the  sweetest  melody  ever 
composed  by  human  thought,  his  soul  had  winged  its  flight  to 
regions  of  eternal  bliss. 


EXERCISE  LXVII. 

fiORATivs  BoNAR,  D.  D.,  18  a  distinguished  clergyman  of  the  Scottisn 
Church.  The  beautiful  lines  below  form  one  of  his  "  Hymns  of  Faith  and 
Hope;"  which,  to  use  his  own  words,  "are  not  the  expressions  of  one  man's 
or  one  party's  faith  and  hope ;  but  are  meant  to  speak  what  may  be  thought 
and  spoken  by  all  to  whom  the  Church's  ancient  faith  and  hope  are  dear." 


OUR  ONE  LIFE. 

I. 
'Ti£  not  for  man  to  trifle !     Life  is  brief, 

And  sin  is  here. 
Our  age  is  but  the  falling  of  a  leaf, 

A  dropping  tear. 
We  have  no  time  to  sport  away  the  hours, 
All  must  be  earnest  in  a  world  like  ours. 


aORATICS  BOIf Am. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  240 


Not  many  lives,  but  only  one  have  we, — 

One,  only  one ; — 
How  sacred  should  that  one  life  ever  be — 

That  narrow  span  ! — 
Day  after  day  filled  up  with  blessed  toil, 
Hour  after  hour  still  bringing  in  new  spoil. 

III. 

Our  being  is  no  shadow  of  thin  air, 

No  vacant  dream, 
No  fable  of  the  things  that  never  were, 

But  only  seem. 
'Tis  full  of  meaning  as  of  mystery, 
Though  strange  and  solemn  may  that  meaning  be. 

IV. 

Our  sorrows  are  no  phantom  of  the  night, 

No  idle  tale ; 
No  cloud  that  floats  along  a  sky  of  light, 

On  summer  gale. 
They  are  the  true  realities  of  earth. 
Friends  and  companions  even  from  our  birth. 

V. 

O  life  helow-  -how  brief,  and  poor,  and  sad  I 

One  heavy  sigh. 
O  life  above — how  long,  how  fair,  and  glad, — 

An  endless  joy. 
Oh,  to  be  done  with  daily  dying  here ; 
Oh,  to  begin  the  living  in  yon  sphere ! 

VI. 

U  day  of  time,  how  dark !     0  sky  and  earth, 

How  dull  your  hue ; 
O  day  of  Christ — how  bright !     0  sky  and  earth, 

Made  fair  and  new  ! 
Come,  better  Eden,  with  thy  fresher  green ; 
Come,  brighter  Salem,  gladden  all  the  scene ! 
11*  R 


^50  SAWDERS'     UNION     SERIES. 


EXERCISE  LXVIII. 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne  was  born  in  Salem,  Massachusetts,  July  4th,  1S04 
After  quitting  college,  in  1825,  ho  resided  many  years  in  Salem :  leading  a 
life  solitary  and  meditative,  though  diversified  by  the  composition  of  occa- 
sional tales  and  sketches  of  a  wild  and  romantic  character.  Some  of  these 
he  published  in  newspapers  and  magazines ;  many  he  destroyed.  In  1837 
he  published  a  number  of  his  papers  which  had  before  appeared  in  an  annual 
called  "The  Token,"  and  which,  for  that  reason,  he  called  "  Twice- Tuld 
Tales."  In  184.3  he  was  married,  and  went  to  reside  "in  the  old  manse  at 
Concord,  which  adjoins  the  battle-field  of  the  Revolution,  a  parsonage  which 
had  nevor  before  been  profaned  by  a  lay  occupant."  This  explains  the  title 
of  his  volume  of  tales  and  sketches  which  appeared,  in  1846,  under  the  name 
of  *' Afoenes  from  an  Old  Manne."  Mr.  Hawthorne  is,  also,  the  author  of 
several  other  works,  and  is  conceded  to  be  a  writer  of  exquisite  grace  and 
finish  J  abounding  in  kindly  humor  and  ever  exercising  the  healthiest  moral 
influence.     The  following  extract  is  from  the  "  Twice-Told  Tales." 

A  RILL  FROM  THE  TOWN  PUMP. 

HAWTHORNE. 

1.  At  this  sultry  noontide,  I  am  cupbearer  to  the  parched 
populace,  for  whose  benefit  an  iron  goblet  is  chained  to  my 
waist.  Like  a  dram-seller  on  the  mall,  at  muster  day,  I  cry 
aloud  to  all  and  sundry,  in  my  plainest  accents,  and  at  the 
very  tiptop  of  my  voice.  Here  it  is,  gentlemen  !  Here  is  the 
good  liquor  I  Walk  up,  walk  up,  gentlemen,  walk  up,  walk  up  ! 
Here  is  the  superior  stuff !  Here  is  the  unadulterated  ale  of 
father  Adam — better  than  Cognac,  Hollands,  Jamaica,  strong 
beer,  or  wine  of  any  price ;  here  it  is  by  the  hogshead  or  the 
single  glass,  and  not  a  cent  to  pay !  Walk  up,  gentlemen,  walk 
up,  and  help  yourselves !  It  were  a  pity,  if  all  this  outcry 
should  draw  no  customers.  Here  they  come.  A  hot  day,  gen 
tlemen !  Quaff,  and  away  again,  so  as  to  keep  yourselves  in  a 
aice,  cool  sweat. 

2.  W^elcome,  most  rubicund  sir  !  You  and  I  have  been  great 
strangers  hitherto;  nor,  to  confess  the  truth,  will  my  nose  be 
anxious  for  a  closer  intimacy,  till  th^  fumes  of  your  breath  be 
a  little  less  potent.  Mercy  on  you,  man !  the  water  absolutely 
hisses  down  !  Fill  again,  and  tell  me,  on  the  word  of  an  honest 
Doper,  did  you  e/er,  in  cellar,  tavern,  or  any  kind  of  a  dram-shop, 
spend  the  price  of  your  children's  food,  for  a  swig  half  so  deli- 
rious ?     Now,  for  the  first  time  these  ten  years,  you  know  the 


RHETORICAL    READER.  251 

flavor  of  cold  water.     Good-by  ;  and,  whenever  you  are  thirsty, 
remember  that  I  keep  a  constant  supply,  at  the  old  stand. 

3.  Who  next?  Oh,  my  little  friend,  you  are  let  loose  from 
school,  and  come  hither  to  scrub  your  blooming  face,  and  drown 
the  memory  of  certain  taps  of  the  ferule,  and  other  schoolboy 
troubles,  in  a  draught  from  the  Town  Pump.  Take  it,  pure  as 
the  current  of  your  young  life.  Take  it,  and  may  your  heart 
and  tongue  never  be  scorched  with  a  fiercer  thirst  than  now  . 
There,  my  dear  child,  put  down  the  cup,  and  yield  your  place 
io  this  elderly  gentleman,  who  treads  so  tenderly  over  the  paving- 
stones,  that  I  suspect  he  is  afraid  of  breaking  them. 

4.  What !  he  limps  by,  without  so  much  as  thanking  rae,  as 
if  my  hospitable  offers  were  meant  only  for  people  who  have  no 
wine  cellars.  Well,  well,  sir — no  harm  done,  I  hope  !  Gro, 
draw  the  cork,  tip  the  decanter;  but,  when  your  gieat  toe  shall 
set  you  a-roaring,  it  will  be  no  affair  of  mine.  This  thirsty  dog, 
with  his  red  tongue  lolling  out,  does  not  scorn  my  hospitality, 
but  stands  on  his  hind  logs,  and  laps  eagerly  out  of  the  trough. 
See  how  lightly  he  capers  away  again  !  Jowler,  did  your  wor- 
ship ever  have  the  gout  ?  Are  you  all  satisfied  ?  Then  wipe 
your  mouths,  my  good  friends;  and,  while  my  spout  has  a 
moment's  leisure,  I  will  delight  the  town  with  a  few  historical 
reminiscences 

5.  In  far  antiquity,  beneath  a  darksome  shadow  of  venerable 
boughs,  a  spring  bubbled  out  of  the  leaf-strewn  earth,  in  the 
very  spot  where  you  now  behold  me,  on  the  sunry  pavement. 
But,  in  the  course  of  time,  a  Town  Pump  was  sunk  into  the 
source  of  the  ancient  spring ;  and,  when  the  first  decayed, 
another  took  its  place — and  then  another,  and  still  another — till 
hero  stand  I,  gentlemen  and  ladies,  to  serve  you  with  my  iron 
goblet.  Drink,  and  be  refreshed  !  The  water  is  pure  and  3old 
as  that  which  slaked  the  thirst  of  the  red  sagamore,  beneath 
the  aged  boughs,  though  now  the  gem  of  the  wilderness  is 
treasured  under  these  hot  stones,  where  no  shadow  falls,  but 
from  the  biick  buildings.  And  be  it  the  moral  of  my  story, 
that,  as  this  wasted  and  long-lost  fountain  is  now  known  and 
prized  again,  so  shall  the  virtues  of  cold  water,  too  Httle  valued 
since  your  father's  days,  be  recognized  by  all. 


252  SANDERS'     UNION    SERIES. 

6.  Your  pardon,  good  people !  T  must  interrupt  my  stream 
of  eloquence,  and  spout  forth  a  stream  of  water,  ti  replenish 
the  trough  for  this  teamster  and  his  two  yoke  of  oxen,  who  have 
come  from  Topsfield,  or  somewhere  along  that  way  No  part 
of  my  business  is  pleasanter  than  the  watering  of  cattle.  Look  I 
how  rapidly  they  lower  the  watermark  on  the  sides  of  the 
trough  till  their  capacious  stomachs  are  moistened  with  a  gallon 
or  two  apiece,  and  they  can  afford  time  to  breathe  it  in,  with 
?ighs  of  calm  enjoyment.  Now  they  roll  their  quiet  eyes  around 
ihe  briin  of  their  monstrous  drinking  vessel.  An  ox  is  your 
true  toper. 

7.  But  I  perceive,  my  dear  auditors,  that  you  are  impatient 
for  the  remainder  of  my  discourse.  Impute  it,  I  beseech  you, 
to  no  defect  of  modesty,  if  I  insist  a  little  longer  on  so  fruitful 
a  topic  as  my  own  multifarious  merits.  It  is  altogether  for 
your  good.  The  better  you  think  of  me,  the  better  men  and 
women  will  you  find  yourselves.  I  shall  say  nothing  of  my  all- 
important  aid  on  washing  days ;  though,  on  that  account  alone, 
I  might  call  myself  the  household  god  of  a  hundred  families. 
Far  be  it  from  me,  also,  to  hint,  my  respectable  friends,  at  the 
show  of  dirty  faces,  which  you  would  present,  without  my  pains 
to  keep  you  clean. 

8.  Nor  will  I  remind  you  how  often,  when  the  midnight  bells 
make  you  tremble  for  your  combustible  town,  you  have  fled  to 
the  Town  Pump,  and  found  me  always  at  my  post,  firm,  amid 
the  confusion,  and  ready  to  drain  my  vital  current  in  your 
behalf.  Neither  is  it  worth  while  to  lay  much  stress  on  my 
claims  to  a  medical  diploma,  as  the  physician,  whose  simple  rule 
of  practice  is  preferable  to  all  the  nauseous  lore  which  has  found 
men  sick  or  left  them  so,  since  the  days  of  Hippocrates.*  Let 
us  take  a  broader  view  of  my  beneficial  influence  on  mankind. 

9.  No;  these  are  trifles,  compared  with  the  merits  which  wiso 
men  concede  to  me — if  not  in  my  single  self,  yet  as  the  repre- 
sentative of  a  class — of  beiiig  the  grand  reformer  of  the  age. 
From  my  spout,  and  such  spouts  as  mine,  must  flow  the  stream, 

*  Hip  poc'  rat  es,  a  famous  Grecian  physician. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  253 

that  shall  cleanse  our  earth  of  the  vast  portion  of  its  crime  and 
anguish,  which  has  gushed  from  the  fiery  fountains  of  the  still. 
In  this  mighty  enterprise,  the  cow  shall  be  my  great  confederate. 
Milk  and  water !  The  Town  Pump  and  the  Cow  !  Such  is  the 
glorious  copartnership,  that  shall  tear  down  the  distilleries  and 
brewhouses,  uproot  the  vineyards,  shatter  the  cider-presses,  ruin 
the  tea  and  coffee  trade,  and,  finally,  monopolize  the  whole  busi- 
ness of  quenching  thirst.     Blessed  consummation  ! 

10.  Ahem!  Dry  work,  this  speechifying;  especially  to  an 
unpraeticed  orator.  I  never  conceived,  till  now,  whnt  toil  the 
temperance  lecturers  undergo  for  my  sake.  Hereafter,  they 
shall  have  the  business  to  themselves.  Do,  some  kind  Christian, 
pump  a  stroke  or  two,  just  to  wet  my  whistle.  Thank  you,  sir ! 
My  dear  hearers,  when  the  world  shall  have  been  regenerated, 
by  my  instrumentality,  you  will  collect  your  useless  vats  and 
liquor  casks  into  one  great  pile,  and  make  a  bonfire,  in  honor 
of  the  Town  Pump,  And,  when  I  shall  have  decayed,  like  my 
predecessors,  then,  if  you  revere  my  memorj'^,  let  a  marble  foun- 
tain, richly  sculptured,  take  my  place  upon  the  spot. 


EXERCISE  LXIX. 

A  Sonnet,  as  a  general  rule,  is  a  poem  consisting  of  fourteen  lines 
forming  two  stanzas  of  four  lines  each,  followed  by  two  more  of  three 
lines  each.  In  the  first  two  stanzas,  called  quatrains,  the  1st  and  the 
4th,  the  5th  and  the  8th  lines  rhyme  together ;  while  in  the  last  two, 
called  tercets,  the  rhymes  are  made  at  the  pleasure  of  the  poet,  but 
never  in  couplets.  This  is  held  to  be  the  rule,  thtugh  deviations  from 
it  are  not  wanting  even  among  the  best  writers,  >\«s  have,  in  English, 
many  admirable  sonnets,  among  which  those  of  Milton  and  Wordsworth 
hold  pre-eminent  rank.  Of  the  latter  it  has  been  well  remarked  that 
"whether  the  prevailing  emotion  be  patriotic  enthusiasm,  religious 
fervor,  or  the  tenderer  influences  of  beautiful  scenery,  historic  spots 
a>'  national  interest,  or  the  impressions  of  art.  he  never  fails  to  give 
that  unity  of  feeling,  that  gradual  swell  of  gentle  harmony — rising,  like 
a  summer  wave,  till  it  softly  breaks  into  melody  in  the  last  line — which 
is  the  peculiar  charm  and  merit  of  this  most  difficult  kind  of  compo 
sition 


254  SANDERS'     UNION    SERIES. 

SONNETS. 


A  SONNET  upon  SONNETS. 

W0RD8WOBTH.* 

Scorn  not  the  Sonnet,  critic !  you  have  frowned, 
Mindless  of  its  just  honors :  with  this  key 
Shakspeare  unlocked  his  heart;  the  melody 

Of  this  small  lute  gave  ease  to  Petrarch's  wound ; 

A.  thousand  times  this  pipe  did  Tasso  sound  j 
CamoSns  soothed  with  it  an  exile's  grief: 
The  Sonnet  glittered  a  gay  myrtle-leaf 

Amid  the  cypress  with  which  Dante  bound 

His  visionary  brow :  a  glow-worm  lamp, 

It  cheered  mild  Spenser,  called  from  Faery-land 

To  struggle  through  dark  ways ;  and,  when  a  damp 
Fell  round  the  path  of  Milton,  in  his  hand 

The  thing  became  a  trumpet,  whence  he  blew 

Soul-animating  strains — alas  !  too  few. 


ON  HIS  OWN   BLINDNESS. 

When  I  consider  how  my  light  is  spent 

Ere  half  my  days,  in  this  dark  world  and  wide, 

And  that  one  talent  which  is  death  to  hide. 

Lodged  with  me  useless,  though  my  soul  more  bent 

To  serve  therewith  my  Maker,  and  present 

My  true  account,  lest  He,  returning,  chide ; 

"  Doth  God  exact  day  labor,  light  denied  V 

I  fondly  ask ;  but  Patience,  to  prevent 

That  murmur,  soon  replies, — "  God  doth  not  need 

Either  man's  work,  or  His  own  gifts ;  who  best 

Bear  His  mild  yoke,  they  serve  Him  best ;  His  state 

Is  kingly ;  thousands  at  His  bidding  speed, 

And  post  o'er  land  and  ocean  without  rest ; 

They,  also,  serve  who  only  stand  and  wait." 

*  For  a  sketch  of  Wordsworth,  see  Exercise  CVIII. 
t  See  Exercise  CXXXVII. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  255 

III. 
TO  MILTON. 

WORI 8W0RTH 

Milton  !  thou  shouldst  be  living  at  this  hour ; 
England  hath  need  of  thee ;  she  is  a  fen 
Of  stagnant  waters ;  altar,  sword,  and  pen, 
Fireside,  the  heroic  wealth  of  hall  and  bower, 
Have  forfeited  their  ancient  English  dower 
Of  inward  happiness.     We  are  selfish  men  j 
Oh  !  raise  us  up,  return  to  us  again; 
And  give  us  manners,  virtue,  freedom,  power. 
Thy  soul  was  like  a  star,  and  dwelt  apart ; 
Thou  hadst  a  voice  whose  sound  was  like  the  sea  ; 
Pure  as  the  naked  heavens — majestic,  free, 
So  didst  thou  travel  on  life's  common  way 
In  cheerful  godliness;  and  yet  thy  heart 
The  lowliest  duties  on  herself  did  lay. 


IV. 
TO  SLEEP. 


WOBBSWOKTH 


A  flock  of  sheep  that  leisurely  pass  by, 
One  after  one ;  the  sound  of  rain,  and  bees 
Murmuring;  the  fall  of  rivers,  winds,  and  seas, 
Smooth  fields;  white  sheets  of  water,  and  pure  sky; 
I  thought  of  all  by  turns,  and  yet  I  lie 
Sleepless  !  and  soon  the  small  birds'  melodies 
Must  hear,  first  uttered  from  my  orchard  trees, 
And  the  first  cuckoo's  melancholy  cry. 
Even  thus  last  night,  and  two  nights  more,  I  lay 
And  could  not  win  thee,  Sleep  !  by  any  stealth; 
So  do  not  let  me  wear  to-night  away. 
Without  thee,  what  is  all  the  morning's  wealth ! 
Come,  blessed  barrier  between  day  and  day. 
Dear  mother  of  fresh  thoughts  and  joyous  health 


256  SANDERS'     UNION    SERIES. 

V. 

THE  moon's  mild  RAY. 

JOHN  B    BRTASt.* 

There  is  a  magic  in  the  moon's  mild  ray, — 
What  time  she  softly  climbs  the  evening  sky, 
And  sitteth  with  the  silent  stars  on  high, — 

That  charms  the  pang  of  earth-born  grief  away. 

I  raise  my  eye  to  the  blue  depths  above, 

And  worship  Him  whose  power,  pervading  spac'e, 
Holds  those  bright  orbs  at  peace  in  His  embrace, 

Yet  comprehends  earth's  lowliest  things  in  love. 

Oft,  when  that  silent  moon  was  sailing  high, 
I've  left  my  youthful  sports  to  gaze,  and  now. 
When  time  with  graver  lines  has  marked  my  brow, 

Sweetly  she  shines  upon  my  sobered  eye. 

0,  may  the  light  of  truth,  my  steps  to  guide, 

Shine  on  my  eve  of  life — shine  soft,  and  long  abide. 

VI. 

ON    THE   PRIMROSE. 

JORir  oi.Aiti.-t 

Welcome,  pale  primrose  !  starting  up  between 
Dead  matted  leaves  of  ash  and  oak  that  strew 
The  every  lawn,  the  wood,  and  spinney  through. 
Mid  creeping  moss  and  ivy's  darker  green; 
How  much  thy  presence  beautifies  the  ground  I 
How  sweet  thy  modest,  unaffected  pride 
Glows  on  the  sunny  bank  and  woods'  warm  side ! 
And,  where  thy  fairy  flowers  in  groups  are  found, 
The  school-boy  roams  enchantedly  along, 
Plucking  the  fairest  with  a  rude  delight ; 
While  the  meek  shepherd  stops  his  simple  song. 
To  gaze  a  moment  on  the  pleasing  sight ; 

*  Brother  of  William  Cullen  Bryant,  and  born  in  July  1807. 

f  John  Clare,  an  English  poet,  born  in  1793.  His  personal  history 
is  interesting,  as  showing  what  industry  and  perseverance,  even  in 
early  youth,  and  under  the  heaviest  embarrassments,  can  achieve. 


RHETORT'^AL    READER.  257 

O'erjoyed  to  see  the  flowers  that  truly  biing 
The  welcome  news  of  sweet  returning  spring. 

VII. 
ON    SABBATH    MORN. 

JOHN  LBTDEH.* 

With  silent  awe  I  hail  the  sacred  morn, 
That  scarcely  wakes  while  all  the  fields  are  still ; 
A  soothing  calm  on  every  breeze  is  borne, 
A  graver  murmur  echoes  from  the  hill. 
And  softer  sings  the  linnet  from  the  thorn ; 
The  skylark  warbles  in  a  tone  less  shrill. 
Hail,  light  serene  !  hail,  sacred  Sabbath  morn ! 
The  sky  a  placid  yellow  luster  throws ; 
The  gales  that  lately  sighed  along  the  grove 
Have  hushed  their  drowsy  wings  in  dead  repose ; 
The  hovering  rack  of  clouds  forgets  to  move : 
So  soft  the  day  when  the  first  morn  arose  I 

VIII. 
ON    SHAKSPEARE. 

HARTLEY  COLERIDeB.t 

The  soul  of  man  is  larger  than  the  sky. 

Deeper  than  ocean — or  the  abysmal  dark 

Of  the  unfathomed  center.     Like  that  ark, 

Which,  in  its  sacred  hold,  uplifted  high, 

O'er  the  drowned  hills,  the  human  family, 

And  stock  reserved  of  every  living  kind, 

So,  in  the  compass  of  the  single  mind. 

The  seeds  and  pregnant  forms  in  essence  lie, 

That  make  all  worlds.     G-reat  poet,  'twas  thy  art 

To  know  thyself,  and  in  thyself  to  be 

Whate'er  Love,  Hate,  Ambition,  Destiny, 

Or  the  firm,  fatal  purpose  of  the  heart 

Can  make  of  man.     Yet  thou  wert  still  the  same, 

Serene  of  thought,  unhurt  by  thy  own  flame. 

*  Born  in  Denholm,  Scotland,  in  1775,  and  died  in  1811. 
f  Soy  of  Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge,  born  in  1796,  and  died  in  1849 

R 


258  '  SANDERS'     UNION     SERIES. 

IX. 
ON    BEAUTY. 

SHAKSPXIOIK 

0,  Low  much  more  doth  beauty  beauteous  seem, 

By  that  sweet  ornament  which  truth  doth  give  I 

The  rose  looks  fair,  but  fairer  we  it  deem 

For  that  sweet  odor  which  doth  in  it  live. 

The  canker-blooms  have  full  as  deep  a  dye, 

As  the  perfumed  tincture  of  the  roses. 

Hang  on  such  thorns,  and  play  as  wantonly 

When  summer's  breath  their  masked  buds  discloses ; 

But,  for  their  virtue  only  is  their  show. 

They  live  unwooed  and  unrespected  fade ; 

Die  to  themselves.     Sweet  roses  do  not  so ; 

Of  their  sweet  deaths  are  sweetest  odors  made ; 

And  so  of  you,  beauteous  and  lovely  youth. 

When  that  shall  fade,  my  verse  distills  your  truth. 


DWELLINGS    OF   THE   DEAD. 

BLACKWOOD'S  HAaAZIlll. 

A  sweet  and  soothing  influence  breathes  around 
The  dwellings  of  the  dead.      Here  on  this  spot, 
Where  countless  generations  sleep  forgot. 
Up  from  the  marble  tomb  and  grassy  mound 
There  cometh  on  mj  ear  a  peaceful  sound. 
That  bids  me  be  contented  with  my  lot. 
And  suffer  calmly.     0  !  when  passions  hot. 
When  rage  or  envy  doth  my  bosom  wound ; 
Or  wild  designs — a  fair  deceiving  train — 
Wreathed  in  their  flowery  fetters  me  enslave , 
Or  keen  misfortune's  arrowy  tempests  roll 
Full  on  my  naked  head, — 0,  then,  again 
May  these  still,  peaceful  accents  of  the  grave 
Arise  like  slumbering  music  on  my  soul! 


RHETORICAL    READER.  ,       259 


EXERCISE  LXX. 

Marcus  Tullitjs  Cicero,  the  great  Roman  orator,  statesman  aad  philoso' 
pher,  was  born  at  Arpinum,  January  3d,  106  before  Christ.  He  was  slain,  in 
the  64th  year  of  his  age,  by  the  hand  of  an  assassin  whom  he  had  once  suc- 
cessfully defended.  This  was  done  at  the  instigation  of  Mark  Antony,  whom 
he  had  bitterly  assailed  in  fourteen  scorching  invectives  j  from  one  of  whi:b 
we  select  the  following. 

CICERO  AGAINST  MARK  ANTONY. 

{Translated  by)  lORD  brougham.* 

1.  This  one  day  —  this  blessed  individual  day — I  say,  this 
very  point  of  time  in  which  I  am  speaking — defend  it,  if  you 
can  !  Why  is  the  Forum  iiedged  in  with  armed  troops  ?  Why 
stand  your  satellites  listening  to  me  sword  in  hand  ?  Why  are 
the  gates  of  the  Temple  of  Peace  not  flung  open  ?  Why  have 
you  marched  into  the  town,  men  of  all  nations, — but  chiefly 
barbarous  nations, — savages  from  Ituraea,  armed  thus  with 
slings  ? 

2.  You  pretend  that  it  is  all  to  protect  your  person.  Is  it  not 
better  far  to  die  a  thousand  deaths,  than  be  unable  to  live  in 
one's  own  country  without  guards  of  armed  men  ?  But  trust 
me,  there  is  no  safety  in  defenses  Hke  these.  We  must  be 
fenced  round  by  the  affections  and  the  good-will  of  our  country- 
men, not  by  their  arms,  if  we  would  be  secure. 

3.  Look  back,  then,  Mark  Antony,  on  that  day  when  you 
abolished  the  Dictatorship ;  set  before  your  eyes  the  delight  of 
the  Senate  and  People  of  Rome ;  contrast  it  with  the  traflic  you 
and  your  followers  are  now  engaged  in — then  you  will  be  sensible 
of  the  vast  difference  between  glory  and  gain.  Yet,  as  some 
stricken  with  a  morbid  affection,  an  obtuseness  of  the  senses, 
are  unable  to  taste  the  flavor  of  their  food,  so  profligate,  rapa- 
cious, desperate  men,  lose  the  relish  of  true  fame. 

4.  But,  if  the  glory  of  great  actions  has  no  charms  for  yo'i, 
cannot  even  /ear  deter  you  from  wicked  deeds?  You  have  no 
apprehension  of  criminal  prosecutions — be  it  so;  if  this  arises 

*  For  a  sketch  of  Brougham,  see  Exercise  XXXIX. 


260       .  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES. 

from  conscious  innocence,  I  commend  it;  but,  if  it  proceeds 
from  your  reliance  upon  mere  force^  do  you  not  perceive  what  it 
is  that  awaits  him  who  has  thus  overcome  the  terrors  of  the  law  ? 

5.  But,  if  you  have  no  dread  of  brave  men  and  patriotic 
citizens,  because  your  person  is  protected  from  them  by  your 
satellites,  believe  me  your  own  partisans  will  not  bear  with  you 
much  longer ;  and  what  kind  of  life  is  his  whose  days  and  niglits 
are  distracted  with  the  fear  of  his  own  followers  ?  Unless, 
indeed,  you  have  bound  them  to  you  by  greater  obligations  than 
those  by  which  Caesar  had  attached  some  of  the  very  men  who 
put  him  to  death ;  or  that  you  can,  in  any  one  respect,  be  com- 
pared to  him. 

6.  In  Mm  there  was  genius,  judgment,  memory,  learning, 
circumspection,  reflection,  application.  His  exploits  in  war,  how 
mischievous  soever  to  his  country,  were  yet  transcendent.  Bent 
for  years  upon  obtaining  supreme  power,  he  had  accomplished 
his  object  with  vast  labor,  through  countless  perils.  By  his 
munificence,  by  public  works,  by  largesses,  by  hospitality,  he 
had  won  over  the  thoughtless  multitude ;  he  had  attached  his 
followers  by  his  generosity,  his  adversaries  by  his  specious 
clemency.  In  a  word,  he  had  introduced  into  a  free  state,  partly 
through  fear  of  him,  partly  through  tolerance  of  him,  a  famil- 
iarity with  slavery. 

7.  With  that  great  man  I  may  compare  you  as  regards  the 
lust  of  power :  in  no  other  thing  can  you  be,  in  any  manner  or 
way,  likened  to  him.  But  out  of  a  thousand  ills  which  he  forced 
into  the  constitution  of  our  commonwealth,  this  one  good  has 
come,  that  the  Roman  people  have  now  learned  how  far  each 
person  is  to  be  trusted,  to  whom  they  may  commit  thecaselves, 
against  whom  they  must  be  on  their  guard.  Do  these  thicga 
never  pass  through  your  mind  ?  Do  you  not  comprehend  that 
it  suffices  for  brave  men  to  have  learned  how  beautiful  the  deed, 
how  precious  the  service,  how  glorious  the  fame  of  extirpating 
a  tyrant  ?  When  mankind  could  not  endure  Cceaar,  will  they 
hear  thee  ?  Henceforward,  trust  me,  they  will  flock  emulously 
to  tbis  work,  nor  wait  for  the  lingering  opportunity, 

8    Regard  the  commonwealth  for  a  moment,  Mark  Antony,  T  do 


RHETORICAL    READER.  261 

beseech  you.  Think  of  the  race  you  are  sprung  from,  not  the 
generation  you  live  with.  Be  on  what  terms  you  please  with 
me;  but  return  into  favor  with  your  country.  That,  however, 
is  your  own  affair — I  will  declare  mi/  course.  Young,  I  stood 
by  the  country — old,  I  will  not  desert  her.  I  defied  the  arms  of 
Catiline-  -I  will  not  tremble  at  yours  !  Nay,  I  should  cheerfully 
fling  myself  into  the  gulf,  if  my  death  would  restore  the  public 
freedom,  and  the  sufferings  of  the  Roman  people  could  thus 
be  exasperated  at  once  to  the  crisis  which  has  been  so  long 
comiog  on  ! 

9.  For  truly,  if  it  is  well  nigh  twenty  years  since  I  denied,  in 
this  very  temple,  that  death  ever  could  come  before  its  time  to  a 
man  of  consular  rank,  how  much  more  truly  may  I  say  so  now, 
in  my  old  age  ?  To  me,  Senators,  death  is  even  desirable,  having 
lived  to  finish  all  I  have  undertaken  to  achieve.  For  two  things 
only  I  feel  anxious ;  the  one,  that  my  eyes  may  close  upon  the 
liberties  of  Rome  —  a  greater  boon  than  this  Heaven  has  not 
to  bestow;  the  other,  that  that  fate  may  befall  every  one.  which 
his  conduct  to  his  country  has  earned. 


EXERCISE  LXXl. 
RICHARD  THE  THIRD  AND  MACBETH. 

WaUAM  HABUTT.* 

1.  The  leading  features  in  the  character  of  Macbeth  are 
striking  enough,  and  they  form  what  may  be  thought,  at  first, 
only  a  bold,  rude,  Gothic  outline.  By  comparing  it  with  other 
characters  of  the  same  author,  we  shall  perceive  the  absolute 
truth  and  identity  which  is  observed  in  the  midst  of  the  giddy 
whirl  and  rapid  career  of  events.  Thus  he  is  as  distinct  a  being 
from  Richard  the  Third,  as  it  is  possible  to  imagine,  though 
these  two   characters,  in  common  hands,  and,  indeed,  in  the 

*  See  Note  on  Hazlitt,  Exercise  XXIX. 


262  SANDERS'     UNION     SERIES. 

hand  of  auy  other  poet,  would  have  been  a  repetition  of  the 
same  general  idea,  more  or  less  exaggerated. 

2.  For  both  are  tyrants,  usurpers,  murderers, — both  aspiring 
and  ambitious, — both  courageous,  cruel,  treacherous.  But 
Richard  is  cruel  from  nature  and  constitution.  Macbeth  be- 
comes so  from  accidental  circumstances.  Richard  is,  from  his 
birth,  deformed  in  body  and  mind,  and  naturally  incapable  of 
good.     Macb-^th  is  full  of  "  the  milk  of  human  kindness,"  is 

rank,  sociable,  generous.  He  is  tempted  to  the  commission  of 
guilt  by  golden  opportunities,  by  the  instigations  of  his  wife, 
and  by  prophetic  warnings.  '^  Fate  and  metaphysical  aid"  con- 
spire against  his  virtue  and  his  loyalty, 

3.  Richard,  on  the  contrary,  needs  no  prompter;  but  wades 
through  a  series  of  crimes  to  the  hight  of  his  ambition,  from 
the  ungovernable  violence  of  his  temper,  and  a  reckless  love  of 
mischief.  He  is  never  gay  but  in  the  prospect  or  in  the  success 
of  his  villainies :  Macbeth  is  full  of  horror  at  the  thoughts  of 
the  murder  of  Duncan,  which  he  is  with  diflBculty  prevailed  on 
to  commit ;  and  of  remorse  after  its  perpetration.  .  Richard  has 
no  mixture  of  common  humanity  in  his  composition,  no  regard 
to  kindred  or  posterity — he  owns  no  fellowship  with  others ;  he 
is  "  himself  alone." 

4.  Macbeth  is  not  destitute  of  feelings  of  sympathy,  is  accessi- 
ble to  pity,  is  even  made,  in  some  measure,  the  dupe  of  hi? 
uxoriousness  J  ranks  the  loss  of  friends,  of  the  cordial  love  of 
his  followers,  and  of  his  good  name,  among  the  causes  which 
have  made  him  weary  of  life;  and  regrets  that  he  has  cvei 
seized  the  crown  by  unjust  means,  since  he  cannot  transmit  it  to 
his  posterity.  There  are  other  decisive  differences  inherent  in 
the  two  characters. 

5.  Richard  may  be  regarded  as  a  man  of  the  world,  a  plotting 
hardened  knave,  wholly  regardless  of  everything  but  his  own 
ends,  and  the  means  to  secure  them — not  so  Macbetl.  The 
superstitions  of  the  age,  the  rude  state  of  society,  the  local 
scenery  and  customs,  all  give  a  wildness  and  imaginary  grandeur 
to  his  character.  From  the  strangeness  of  the  events  that  sur- 
round him,  he  is  full  of  amazement  and  fear;  and  stands  in 


RHETORICAL    READER.  26S 

doubt  between  ti  e  world  of  reality  and  the  world  of  fancy.    He 
sees  sights  not  shown  to  mortal  eye,  and  hears  unearthly  music. 

6.  All  is  tumult  and  disorder  within  and  without  his  mindj 
his  purposes  recoil  upon  himself,  are  broken  and  disjointed;  he 
is  the  double  thrall  of  his  passions  and  his  destiny.  Richard 
is  not  a  character  of  either  imagination  or  pathos,  but  of  pure 
self-will. 

7.  There  is  no  conflict  of  opposite  feelings  in  his  breast,  [n 
the  busy  turbulence  of  his  projects,  he  never  loses  his  self- 
possession,  and  makes  use  of  every  circumstance  that  happens, 
as  an  instrument  of  his  long-reaching  designs.  In  his  last  ex- 
tremity, we  regard  him  but  as  a  wild  beast  in  the  toils.  But  we 
never  entirely  lose  our  concern  for  Macbeth  j  and  he  calls  back 
all  our  sympathy  by  that  fine  close  of  thoughtful  melancholy. 


EXERCISE  LXXII. 

The  story  on  which  is  founded  the  play  of  Macbeth  is  told  by  Holin- 
shfid,  an  old  English  chronicler,  who  died  about  the  year  1580.  Dun- 
can, king  of  Scotland,  in  reward  for  meritorious  services,  had  determined 
to  make  Macbeth,  one  of  his  generals,  thane  of  Cawdor:  the  previous 
incumbent  having  proved  a  traitor.  Meantime,  Macbeth  had  been  told 
by  three  witches,  that  he  should  be  made,  not  only  thane  of  Cawdor, 
but  king  of  Scotland.  From  that  moment  he  began  to  meditate  the 
death  of  the  king,  so  as  to  realize  that  part  of  the  prophecy  which 
j>ointed  to  the  possession  of  the  crown.  In  this,  his  wife  proves  his 
evil  minister ;  and  soon,  in  pursuance  of  their  foul  purpose,  Duncan  is 
murdered,  while  a  guest  and  asleep  in  Macbeth's  castle.  The  scenea 
below  powerfully  portray  the  workings  of  guilty  ambition. 

SCENE  FROM  MACBETH. 

Enter  Macbeth. 
Mach.  If  it  were  done,  when  'tis  done,  then  ^twere  well 
It  were  done  quickly :  if  the  assassination 
Could  trammel  up  the  consequence,  and  catch, 
Witli  his  surcea,«ie,  success;  that  but  this  blow 


264  SANDERS      UNION    SERIES. 

Might  be  the  be-all  and  the  end-all  here, 
But  here,  upon  this  bank  and  shoal  of  time, — 
We'd  jump  the  life  to  come.     But,  in  these  cases, 
We  still  have  judgment  here;  that  we  but  teach 
Bloody  instructions,  which  being  taught,  return 
To  plague  the  inventor :  this  even-handed  justice 
Commends  the  ingredients  of  our  poisoned  chalice 
To  our  own  lips.     He's  here  in  double  trust ; 
First,  as  I  am  his  kinsman  and  his  subject, 
Strong  both  against  the  deed  :  then,  as  his  host, 
Who  should  against  his  murderer  shut  the  door, 
Not  bear  the  knife  myself.     Besides,  this  Duncan 
Hath  borne  his  faculties  so  meek,  hath  been 
80  clear  in  his  great  office,  that  his  virtues 
Will  plead  like  angels,  trumpet-tongued,  against 
The  deep  damnation  of  his  taking-off: 
And  pity,  hke  a  naked  new-born  babe, 
Striding  the  blast,  or  heaven's  cherubim,  horsed 
Upon  the  sightless  couriers  of  the  air, 
Shall  blow  the  horrid  deed  in  every  eye, 
That  tears  shall  drown  the  wind.     I  have  no  spur 
To  goad  the  sides  of  my  intent,  but  only 
Vaulting  ambition,  which  o'erleaps  itself, 
And  falls  on  the  other. — How  now,  what  news  'i 

Enter  Lady  Macbeth. 

Lady  M.  He  has  almost  supped.    Why  have  you  left  the 
chamber  ? 

Mach.  Hath  he  asked  for  me  ? 

Lady  M.  Know  you  not,  he  has  ? 

Mach.  We  will  proceed  no  further  in  this  business : 
He  hath  honored  me  of  late ;  and  I  have  bought 
Groldea  opinions  from  all  sorts  of  people. 
Which  would  be  worn  now  in  their  newest  gloss, 
Not  cast  aside  so  soon. 

Lady  M.  Was  the  hope  drunk. 

Wherein  you  dressed  yourself?  hath  it  slept  since? 


RHETORICAL    READER  265 

And  wakes  it  now,  to  look  so  green  and  pale 
At  what  it  did  so  freely  ?     From  this  time, 
Such  I  account  thy  love.     Art  thou  afeard 
To  be  the  same  in  thine  own  act  and  valor. 
As  thou  art  in  desire  ?     Would'st  thou  have  that 
Which  thou  esteem'st  the  ornament  of  life, 
And  live  a  coward,  in  thine  own  esteem; 
fiCtting  /  dare  not  wait  upon  /  would, 
Fiiko  the  poor  cat  i'  the  adage  ? 

Macb.  Pr'ythee,  peace : 

I  dare  do  all  that  may  become  a  man ; 
Who  dares  do  more,  is  none. 

Ladi/  M.  What  beast  was  it  then, 

That  made  you  break  this  enterprise  to  me  ? 
When  you  durst  do  it,  then  you  were  a  man ; 
And,  to  be  more  than  what  you  were,  you  would 
Be  so  much  more  the  man.     Nor  time,  nor  place, 
Did  then  adhere,  and  yet  you  would  make  both : 
They  have  made  themselves,  and  that  their  fitness  now 
Does  unmake  you. 

Macb.  If  we  should  fail, 

Lady  M.  We  fail  I 

But  screw  your  courage  to  the  sticking  place. 
And  we'll  not  fail.     When  Duncan  is  asleep, 
(Whereto  the  rather  shall  his  day's  hard  journey 
Soundly  invite  him,)  his  two  chamberlains 
Will  I,  with  wine  and  wassail,  so  convince. 
That  memory,  the  warder  of  the  brain. 
Shall  be  a  fume,  and  the  receipt  of  reason 
A  limbeck*  only:  When  in  swinish  sleep, 
Their  drenched  natures  lie,  as  in  a  death. 
What  can  not  you  and  I  perform  upon 
The  unguarded  Duncan  ?  what  not  put  upon 
His  spongy  officers  j  who  shall  bear  the  guilt 
Of  our  great  quell  ^  f 

*  Alembic,  a  still.  f  Murder 

12  6  R 


t&S^  SANDERS'     UNION    SERIES. 

Macb.  Will  it  not  be  received, 

When  we  haye  marked  with  blood  those  sleepy  two 
Of  his  own  chamber,  and  used  their  very  daggers, 
That  they  have  done  it  ? 

Lady  M.  Who  dares  receive  it  other, 

As  we  shall  make  our  griefs  and  clamor  roar 
Upon  his  death? 

Macb.  T  am  settled,  and  bend  up 

Kach  corporal  agent  to  this  terrible  feat. 
Away,  and  mock  the  time  with  fairest  show : 
1  alse  face  must  hide  what  the  false  heart  doth  know.    [^Exeunt. 

Court  within  the  Castle.     Enter  Macbeth  and  a  Servant  with 
a  torch. 
Macb.  Go,  bid  thy  mistress,  when  my  drink  is  ready, 
She  strike  upon  the  bell.     Get  thee  to  bed.  [Exit  Set  v. 

Is  this  a  dagger,  which  I  see  before  me, 

The  handle  toward  my  hand  ?     Come,  let  me  clutch  thee : 

I  have  thee  not,  and  yet  I  see  thee  still. 

Art  thou  not,  fatal  vision,  sensible 

To  feeling,  as  to  sight  ?  or  art  thou  but 

A  dagger  of  the  mind  j  a  false  creation, 

Proceeding  from  the  heat-oppressed  brain  ? 

I  see  thee  yet,  in  form  as  palpable 

As  this  which  now  I  draw. 

Thou  marshal' st  me  the  way  that  I  was  going  j 

And  such  an  instrument  I  was  to  use. 

Mine  eyes  are  made  the  fools  of  the  other  senses, 

Or  else  worth  all  the  rest :  I  see  thee  still  j 

And  on  thy  blade,  and  dudgeon,  gouts  of  blood. 

Which  was  not  so  before. — There's  no  such  thing : 

It  is  the  bloody  business  which  informs 

Thus  to  mine  eyes. — Thou  sure  and  firm  set  earth, 

Hear  not  my  steps,  which  way  they  walk,  for  fear 

Thy  very  stones  prate  of  my  where-about, 

And  take  the  present  horror  from  the  time, 


RHETORICAL    READER.  267 

Which  LOW  suits  with  it. — Whiles  I  threat,  he  lives ; 

Words  to  the  heat  of  deeds  too  cold  breath  gives.  [J.  bell  rings. 

I  go,  and  it  is  done ;  the  bell  invites  me ; 

Hear  it  not,  Duncan ;  for  it  is  a  knell 

That  summons  thee  to  Heaven,  or  to  Hell. 


EXERCISE  LXXIII. 

The  merciless  monarch  whose  character  is  portrayed  in  the  play  ot 
Richard  III.,  was  born  in  the  year  1452.  The  story  of  the  savage 
means  by  which  he  reached  the  throne  is  one  of  the  blackest  in  all 
history.  In  the  scene  below  he  appears  just  after  waking  out  of  a 
frightful  dream.  In  that  dream  had  appeared  to  him  severally  the 
ghosts  of  all  those  whom  he  had  murdered.  Each,  in  terrible  terms, 
announces  the  doom  that  awaited  him  on  the  following  day ;  on  which 
(August  22d,  1485)  he  was  slain  in  the  celebrated  battle  of  Boswortb 
Field. 

SCENE  FROM  RICHARD  III. 

SHAKSPEASa. 

King  Richard  starting  out  of  his  dream. 
Rich.  Grive  me  another  horse, — bind  up  my  wounds, — 
Have  mercy.  Heaven  ! — Soft  j  I  did  but  dream. 

0  coward  conscience,  how  dost  thou  afflict  me ! 
The  lights  burn  blue. — It  is  now  dead  midnight. 
Cold,  fearful  drops  stand  on  my  trembhng  flesh. 
What  do  I  fear  f     Myself?     There's  none  else  by : 
Richard  loves  Richard ;  that  is,  /  am  Z 

Is  there  a  murderer  here  ?     No ; — Yes ;  I  am. 

Then  fly. — What,  from  myself?     Great  reason  I  Why  ? 

Lest  I  revenge.      What?     Myself  on  myself? 

1  love  myself.     Wherefore  ?     For  any  good 
That  I  myself  have  done  unto  myself? 

0,  no :  alas,  I  rather  hate  myself, 

For  hateful  deeds  committed  by  myself! 

I  am  a  villain ;  yet  I  lie, — I  am  not. 

Fool,  of  thyself  speak  well : — Fool,  do  not  flatter. 


268  SANDERS-    UNION    SERIES. 

My  conscience  liath  a  thousand  several  tongues, 
And  every  tongue  brings  in  a  several  tale, 
And  every  tale  condemns  me  for  a  villain. 
Perjury,  perjury  in  the  high'st  degree, 
Murder,  stern  murder,  in  the  dir'st  degree, 
All  several  sins,  all  used  in  each  degree. 
Throng  to  the  bar,  crying  all —  Guilty  !   Guilty  I 
I  shall  despair. — There  is  no  creature  loves  me  j 
Anc,  if  1  die,  no  soul  w\\\ pity  me: 
Nay,  wherefore  should  they  ?  since  that  I  myself 
Find  in  myself  no  pity  to  myself. 
Methought  the  souls  of  all  that  I  had  murdered, 
Came  to  my  tent  j  and  every  one  did  threat 
To-morrow's  vengeance  on  the  head  of  Richard. 


EXERCISE  LXXIV. 
RICHARD  OF  GLOSTER. 


JOHN  S.  8AXB.* 


I. 

Perhaps,  my  dear  boy,  you  may  never  have  heard 

Of  that  wicked  old  monarch,  Kino  Richard  the  Thirj>, — 

Whose  actions  were  often  extremely  absurd; 

And  who  led  such  a  sad  life, 

Such  a  wanton  and  mad  life ; 
Indeed,  I  may  say,  such  a  wretchedly  bad  life, 
I  suppose  I  am  perfectly  safe  in  declaring, 
There  was  ne'er  such  a  monster  of  infamous  daring  j 
In  all  sorts  of  crime  he  was  wholly  unsparing ; 
In  pride  and  ambition  was  quite  beyond  bearing, 
And  had  a  bad  habit  of  cursing  and  swearing. 

*  See  Note  on  Exercise  IX. 


i 

a^ETORICAL    READER.  269 

II. 

And  yet  Richard's  tongue  was  remarkably  smooth  • 
Could  utter  a  lie  quite  as  easy  as  truth ; 
(Another  bad  habit  he  got  in  his  youth ;) 
And  had,  on  occasion,  a  powerful  battery 
Of  plausible  phrases  and  eloquent  flattery, 
Which  gave  him,  my  boy,  in  that  barbai-ous  day, 
(Things  are  different  now,  I  am  happy  to  say,) 
V)ver  feminine  hearts  a  most  perilous  sway. 

III. 

He  murdered  their  brothers, 

And  fathers  and  mothers, 
And,  worse  than  all  that,  he  slaughtered  by  dozens 
His  own  royal  uncles  and  nephews  and  cousins; 
And  then,  in  the  cunningest  sort  of  orations, 

In  smooth  conversations. 

And  flattering  ovations. 
Made  love  to  their  principal  female  relations  I 
'Twas  very  improper,  my  boy,  you  must  know, 
For  the  son  of  a  king  to  behave  himself  so ; 
And  you'll  scarcely  believe  what  the  chronicles  show 

Of  his  wonderful  wooings 

And  infamous  doings; 
But  here's  an  exploit  that  he  certainly  did  do — 

Killed  his  own  cousin  Ned, 

As  he  slept  in  his  bed, 
And  married  next  day  the  disconsolate  widow  I 

IV. 

1  don't  understand  how  such  ogres  arise. 
But  beginning,  perhaps,  with  things  little  in  size, 
Such  as  torturing  beetles  and  blue-bottle  flies, 
Or  scattering  snuff  in  a  poodle-dog's  eyes, — 
King  Richard  had  grown  so  wantonly  cruel, 
He  minded  a  murder  no  more  than  a  duel; 


270  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES. 

He'd  indulge,  on  the  slightest  pretense  or  occasion, 
In  his  favorite  amusement  of  decapitation, 

Until  "  Off  with  his  head!" 

It  is  credibly  said, 
From  his  majesty's  mouth  came  as  easy  and  pat — 
As  from  an  old  constable,  "  Off  with  his  hat  /" 

V. 

And  now  King  Richard  has  gone  to  bed ; 

But  e'en  in  his  sleep 

He  can  not  keep 
The  past  or  the  future  out  of  his  head. 

In  his  deep  remorse. 

Each  mangled  corse, 
Of  all  he  had  slain, — or,  what  was  worse. 
Their  ghosts. — came  up  in  terrible  force. 
And  greeted  his  ear  with  unpleasant  discourse, 

Until,  with  a  scream 

He  woke  from  his  dream. 
And  shouted  aloud  for  "  another  horse  I" 

VI. 

But  see  I  the  murky  Night  is  gone ! 

The  Morn  is  up,  and  the  Fight  is  on ! 

The  Knights  are  engaging,  the  warfare  is  waging; 

On  the  right — on  the  left — the  battle  is  raging ; 

King  Richard  is  down  ! 

Will  he  save  his  crown  ? 
There's  a  crack  in  it  now  ! — he's  beginning  to  bleed  * 
Aha  !  King  Richard  has  lost  his  steed  I 
(At  a  moment  like  this  'tis  a  terrible  need  t^ 
He  shouts  aloud  with  thundering  force, 
And  offers  a  veri/  high  price  for  a  horse. 
But  it's  all  in  vain — the  battle  is  done — 
The  day  is  lost ! — and  the  day  is  won  ! — 
And  Richmond  is  King !  and  Richard's  a  corte  I 


RHETORICAL    READER.  271 


EXERCISE  LXXV 


Archibald  Alison,  the  distinguished  Scotch  advocate  and  historian,  i^as 
born  at  Kenley  in  1792.  He  has  published  several  able  works  on  Law,  but 
is  best  known  by  his  "  History  of  Europe  from  the  Commencement  of  the 
French  Revolution  t«  the  Battle  of  Waterloo."  He  has  been  for  many  years, 
also,  a  large  contributor  to  Blackwood's  and  other  Magazines,  and  a  selection 
from  these  papers  has  been  published  under  the  title  of  "  Essai/a."  His  style 
is  singularly  animated  and  interesting. 

Franjois  ArGUSTE,  VicoMTE  DB  CHATEAUBRIAND,  a  French  author  and 
statesman,  was  born  at  St.  Malo,  in  the  year  1768,     He  died  in  Paris  in  1848. 

Sir  Walter  Scott,  the  celebrated  Scottish  poet  and  novelist,  was  born  in 
Kdinburgh,  August  15th,  1771,  and  died  at  Abbotsford,  September  21st,  1832. 
He  was  made  a  baronet  in  1820. 

CHATEAUBRIAND  AND  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 

ALISON. 

1.  Though  pursuing  the  same  pure  and  ennobling  career, 
though  gifted  with  the  same  ardent  imagination,  and  steeped  in 
the  same  fountains  of  ancient  lore,  no  two  writers  were  ever 
more  dijOferen"-  than  Chateaubriand  and  Sir  Walter  Scott.  The 
great  characteristic  of  the  French  author,  is  the  impassioned 
and  enthusiastic  turn  of  his  mind.  Master  of  immense  infor- 
mation, thoroughly  imbded  w^ith  the  learning  of  classical  and 
Catholic  times,  gifted  with  a  retentive  memory,  poetical  fancy, 
and  a  painter's  eye,  he  brings  to  bear  upon  every  subject  the 
force  of  erudition,  the  images  of  poetry,  the  charm  of  varied 
scenery,  and  the  eloquence  of  impassioned  feeling. 

2.  Hence  his  writings  display  a  reach  and  variety  of  imagery, 
a  depth  of  light  and  shadow,  a  vigor  of  thought,  and  an  extent 
of  illustration,  to  which  there  is  nothing  comparable  in  any 
other  writer,  ancient  or  modern,  with  whom  we  are  acquainted 
All  that  he  has  seen,  or  read,  or  heard,  seem  present  to  his 
mind,  whatever  he  does,  or  wherever  he  is.  He  illustrates  the 
genius  of  Christianity  by  the  beauties  of  classical  learning, 
inhales  the  spirit  of  ancient  prophecy  on  the  shores  of  the 
Jordan,  dreams  on  the  banks  of  the  Eurotas  of  the  solitude 
and  gloom  of  the  American  forests,  visits  the  Holy  Sepulcher 
with  a  mind  alternately  devoted  to  the  devotion  of  a  pilgrim, 


272  SANDERS'     UNION     SERIES. 

the  curiosity  of  an  antiquary,  and  the  enthusiasm  of  a  .rusader, 
and  combines,  in  his  romances,  with  the  tender  feelings  of  chiv- 
alrous love,  the  heroism  of  Roman  virtue,  and  the  sublimity 
of  Christian  martyrdom. 

3.  His  writings  are  less  a  faithful  portrait  of  any  particular 
age  or  country,  than  an  assemblage  of  all  that  is  grand,  and 
generous,  and  elevated  in  human  nature.  He  drinks  deep  of 
inspiration  at  all  the  fountains  where  it  has  ever  been  poured 
forth  to  mankind,  and  delights  us  less  by  the  accuracy  of  any 
particular  picture,  than  the  traits  of  genius,  which  he  has  com- 
ftined  from  every  quarter  where  its  footsteps  have  trod.  His 
«tyle  seems  formed  on  the  lofty  strains  of  Isaiah,  or  the  beautiful 
images  of  the  book  of  Job,  more  than  all  the  classical  or  modern 
literature  with  which  his  mind  is  so  amply  stored. 

4.  He  is  admitted  by  all  Frenchmen,  of  whatever  party,  to 
be  the  most  perfect  living  master  of  their  language,  and  to  have 
gained  for  it  beauties  unknown  to  the  age  of  Bossuet*  and 
Fenelon.j"  Less  polished  in  his  periods,  less  sonorous  in  his  dic- 
tion, less  melodious  in  his  rhythm,  than  these  illustrious  writers, 
he  is  incomparably  more  varied,  rapid,  and  energetic;  his  ideas 
flow  in  quicker  succession,  his  words  follow  in  more  striking 
antithesis ;  the  past,  the  present,  and  the  future  rise  up  at  once 
before  us ;  and  we  see  how  strongly  the  stream  of  genius,  in- 
stead of  gliding  down  the  smooth  current  of  ordinary  life,  has 
been  broken  and  agitated  by  the  cataract  of  revolution. 

5.  With  far  less  classical  learning,  fewer  images  derived  from 
traveling,  inferior  information  on  many  historical  subjects,  and 
a  mind  of  a  less  impassioned  and  energetic  cast,  our  own  Sir 
Walter  is  far  more  deeply  read  in  that  book  which  is  ever  the 
same — the  human  heart.  This  is  his  unequaled  excellence — 
there  he  stands,  since  the  days  of  Shakspeare,  without  a  rival. 
It  is  to  thio  cause  that  his  astonishing  success  has  been  owing. 
We  feel,  in  his  characters,  that  it  is  not  romance,  but  real  life 

*  Bossuet  [Bossicd),  a  most  renowned  pulpit  orator  of  France,  born 
in  the  year  1627,  and  died  in  1704 

f  Fenelon,  the  celebrated  Archbishop  of  Cambray,  so  renowned  foi 
his  eloquence  and  his  virtues,  was  born  in  1651,  and  died  in  1715. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  273 

which  is  represented.  Every  word  that  is  said,  especially  in 
the  Scotch  novels,  is  nature  itself.  Homer,  Cervantes,  Shak- 
speare,  and  Scott,  alone  have  penetrated  to  the  deep  substratum 
of  character,  which,  however,  disguised  by  the  varieties  of  cli- 
mate and  government,  is,  at  bottom,  everywhere  the  same ;  and 
thence  they  have  found  a  responsive  echo  in  every  human 
heart. 

6.  E^^ery  man  who  reads  these-  admirable  works,  from  the 
North  Gape  to  Cape  Horn,  feels  that  what  the  characters  they 
contain,  are  made  to  say,  is  just  what  would  have  occurred  to 
themselves,  or  what  they  have  heard  said  by  others  as  long  as 
they  lived.  Nor  is  it  only  in  the  delineation  of  character,  and 
the  knowledge  of  human  nature,  that  the  Scottish  Novelist,  like 
his  great  predecessors,  is,  but  for  them,  without  a  rival.  Power- 
ful in  the  pathetic,  admirable  in  dialogue,  unmatched  in  descrip- 
tion, his  writings  captivate  the  mind  as  much  by  the  varied 
excellencies  which  they  exhibit,  as  the  powerful  interest  which 
they  maintain. 

7.  He  has  carried  romance  out  of  the  region  of  imagination, 
and  sensibility  into  the  walks  of  actual  life.  We  feel  interested 
in  his  characters,  not  because  they  are  ideal  beings  with  whom 
we  have  become  acquainted  for  the  first  time  when  we  began 
the  book,  but  because  they  are  the  very  persons  we  have  lived 
with  from  our  infancy.  His  descriptions  of  scenery  are  not 
luxuriant  and  glowing  pictures  of  imaginary  beauty,  like  those 
of  Mrs.  Radcliffe,  having  no  resemblance  to  actual  nature,  but 
faithful  and  graphic  portraits  of  real  scenes,  drawn  with  tho 
eye  of  a  poet,  but  the  fidelity  of  a  consummate  draughtsman. 

8.  He  has  combined  historical  accuracy  and  romantic  adven- 
ture with  the  interest  of  tragic  events ;  we  live  with  the  heroes, 
and  princes,  and  paladins  of  former  times,  as  with  our  own  coU' 
temporaries;  and  acquire  from  the  splendid  coloring  of  his 
pencil  such  a  vivid  conception  of  the  manners  and  pomp  of  the 
feudal  ages,  that  we  confound  them,  in  our  recollections,  with 
the  scenes  which  we  ourselves  have  witnessed. 

9.  Disdaining  to  flatter  the  passions,  or  pander  to  the  am- 
bition of  the  populace,  he  has  done  more  than  any  man  alive  to 

12*  R 


274  SA^DERS'   union   series. 

elevate  their  character ;  to  fill  their  minds  with  the  noble  senti- 
ments which  dignify  alike  the  cottage  and  the  palace ;  to  exhibit 
the  triumph  of  virtue  in  the  humblest  stations  over  all  that  the 
world  calls  great;  and  without  ever  indulging  a  sentiment  which 
might  turn  them  from  the  scenes  of  their  real  usefulness,  bring 
home  to  every  mind  the  "  might  that  slumbers  in  a  peasant's 
arm." 

10.  Above  all,  he  has  uniformly,  in  all  his  varied  and  exten- 
sive productions,  shown  himself  true  to  the  cause  of  virtue 
Amidst  all  the  innumerable  combinations  of  character,  event, 
and  dialogue,  which  he  has  formed,  he  has  ever  proved  faithful 
to  the  polar  star  of  duty ;  and  alone,  perhaps,  of  the  great  ro- 
mance writers  of  the  world,  has  not  left  a  line  which  on  his 
death-bed  he  would  wish  recalled. 


EXERCISE  LXXVI. 

til  ft  RO  glyph'  ic  is  a  sacred  character  or  symbol :  the  word  being 
compouuded  of  two  Greek  words  (Hikro,  sacred,  and  Glyphic,  relating 
to  carving  or  carved  work),  and  used  to  denote,  especially,  the  ancient 
Egyptian  picture-writing. 

NO  RELIGION  WITHOUT  MYSTERIES. 

CHATEAUBRIAND. 

1.  There  is  nothing  beautiful,  sweet,  or  grand  in  life,  but  in 
its  mysteries.  The  sentiments  which  agitate  us  most  strongly, 
are  enveloped  in  obscurity;  modesty,  virtuous  lovo,  sincere 
friendship,  have  all  their  secrets,  with  which  the  world  must  not 
be  made  acquainted.  Hearts  which  love  understand  each  other 
by  a  word ;  half  of  each  is  at  all  times  open  to  the  other.  Inno- 
cence itself  is  but  a  holy  ignorance,  and  the  most  ineffable  of 
mysteries.  Infancy  is  only  happy,  because  it  as  yet  knows 
nothing ;  age  miserable,  because  it  has  nothing  more  to  learn. 
Happily  for  it,  when  the  mysteries  of  life  are  ending,  those  of 
immortality  commence. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  h{5 

2,  If  it  is  thus  with  the  sentiments,  it  is  assuredly  not.  less  so 
with  the  virtues ;  the  most  angeUc  are  those  which,  emanating 
directly  from  the  Deity,  such  as  charity,  love  to  withdraw  them- 
selves from  all  regards,  as  if  fearful  to  betray  their  celestial 
origin. 

3.  If  we  turn  to  the  understanding,  we  shall  find  that  the 
pleasures  of  thought,  also,  have  a  certain  connection  with  the 
mysterious.  To  what  sciences  do  we  unceasingly  return  ?  To 
those  which  always  leave  something  still  to  be  discovered,  and 
fix  our  regards  on  a  perspective  which  is  never  to  terminate. 
If  we  wander  in  the  desert,  a  sort  of  instinct  leads  us  to  shun 
the  plains  where  the  eye  embraces  at  once  the  whole  circum- 
ference of  nature,  to  plunge  into  forests — those  forests — the 
cradle  of  religion,  whose  shades  and  solitudes  are  filled  with  the 
recollection  of  prodigies,  where  the  ravens  and  the  doves  nour- 
ished the  prophets  and  fathers  of  the  church.  If  we  visit  a 
modern  monument,  whose  origin  or  destination  is  known,  it 
excites  no  attention ;  but,  if  we  meet  on  a  desert  isle,  in  the 
midst  of  the  ocean,  with  a  mutilated  statue  pointing  to  the  west, 
with  its  pedestal  covered  with  hieroglyphics,  and  worn  by  the 
winds,  what  a  subject  of  meditation  is  presented  to  the  traveler ! 
Everything  is  concealed,  everything  is  hidden  in  the  universe. 
Man  himself  is  the  greatest  mystery  of  the  whole.  Whence 
comes  the  spark  which  we  call  existence,  and  in  what  obscurity 
is  it  to  be  extinguished?  The  Eternal  has  ph^ced  our  birth,  and 
our  death,  under  the  form  of  two  vailed  phantoms,  at  the  two 
extremities  of  our  career;  the  one  produces  the  inconceivable 
gift  of  life,  which  the  other  is  ever  ready  to  devour. 

4  It  is  not  surprising,  then,  considering  the  passion  of  the 
human  mind  for  the  mysterious,  that  the  religions  of  every 
country  should  have  had  their  impenetrable  secrets.  God  for- 
bid!  that  I  should  compare  the  mysteries  of  the  true  faith,  or 
the  unfathomable  depths  of  the  Sovereign  in  the  heavens,  to  the 
changing  obscurities  of  those  gods  which  are  the  work  of  human 
hands.  All  that  I  observe  is,  that  there  is  no  religion  without 
mysteries,  and  that  it  is  they,  with  the  sacrifice^  which  everywhere 
constitute  the  essence  of  the  worship. 


276  SANDERS'    UNION     SERIES. 


EXERCISE  LXXVII. 

THE  CHRISTIAN  KNIGHT  AND  THE   SARACEN   CAVALIER:    h 
PASSAGE  AT  ARMS. 

aiK   WALTER  8C0TT.* 

1 .  The  burning  sun  of  Syria  had  not  yet  attained  its  highesi 
p«ji"  t  in  the  horizon,  when  a  knight  of  the  Red  Cross,  who  had 
leff  his  distant  northern  home,  and  joined  the  host  of  the 
ei'Udaders  in  Palestine,  was  pacing  slowly  along  the  sandy 
ieserts  which  lie  in  the  vicinity  of  the  Dead  Sea,  where  the 
waves  of  the  Jordan  pour  themselves  into  an  inland  sea,  from 
which  there  is  no  discharge  of  waters. 

2.  Upon  this  scene  of  desolation  the  sun  shone  with  almost 
intolerable  splendor,  and  all  living  nature  seemed  to  have  hidden 
itself  from  the  rays,  excepting  the  solitary  figure  which  moved 
through  the  flitting  sand  at  a  foot's  pace,  and  appeared  the  sole 
breathing  thing  on  the  wide  surface  of  the  plain.  The  dress  of 
the  rider  and  the  accouterments  of  his  horse  were  peculiarly 
unfit  for  the  traveler  in  such  a  country. 

3.  A  coat  of  linked  mail,  with  long  sleeves,  plated  gauntlets, 
and  a  steel  breastplate,  had  not  been  esteemed  a  sufl&cient  weight 
of  armor ;  there  was,  also,  his  triangular  shield  suspended  round 
his  neck,  and  his  barred  helmet  of  steel,  over  which  he  had  a 
hood  and  collar  of  mail,  which  was  drawn  around  the  warrior's 
shoulders  and  throat,  and  filled  up  the  vacancy  between  the 
hauberk  and  the  head-piece.  His  lower  limbs  were  sheathed, 
like  his  body,  in  flexible  mail,  securing  the  legs  and  thighs, 
while  the  feet  rested  in  plated  shoes,  which  corresponded  with 
the  gauntlets. 

4.  A  long,  broad,  straight-shaped,  double-edged  falchion,  with 
a  handle  formed  like  a  cross,  corresponded  with  a  stout  poniard 
on  the  other  side.  The  knight,  also,  bore,  secured  to  his  saddle 
with  one  end  resting  on  his  stirrup,  the  long  steel-headed  lance, 
his  own  proper  weapon,  which,  as  he  rode,  projected  backwards^ 


*  See  Exercise  LXXV. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  277 

and  displayed  its  little  penuoncelle,*  to  dally  with  the  faint 
breeze,  or  drop  in  the  dead  calm.  To  this  cumbrous  equipment 
must  be  added  a  surcoat  of  embroidered  cloth,  much  frayed  and 
worn,  which  was  thus  far  useful,  that  it  excluded  the  burning 
rays  of  the  sun  from  the  armor,  which  they  would  otherwise 
have  rendered  intolerable  to  the  wearer. 

5.  The  surcoat  bore,  in  several  places,  the  arms  of  the  owner, 
although  much  defaced.  These  seemed  to  be  a  couchant 
Ic.pard,  with  the  motto,  "  /  sleep — wake  me  not^  An  outline 
of  the  same  device  might  be  traced  on  his  shield,  though  many 
a  blow  had  almost  effaced  the  painting.  The  flat  top  of  his 
cumbrous  cylindrical  helmet  was  unadorned  with  any  crest.  In 
r<5taining  their  own  unwieldy  defensive  armor,  the  northern 
crusaders  seemed  to  set  at  defiance  the  nature  of  the  climate  and 
country  to  which  they  were  come  to  war. 

6.  The  accouterments  of  the  horse  were  scarcely  less  massive 
and  unwieldy  than  those  of  the  rider.  The  animal  had  a  heavy 
saddle  plated  with  steel,  uniting  in  front  with  a  species  of  breast- 
plate, and  behind  with  defensive  armor  made  to  cover  the  loins. 
Then  there  was  a  steel  ax,  or  hammer,  called  a  mace-of-arms, 
and  which  hung  to  the  saddle  bow ;  the  reins  were  secured  by 
chain  work,  and  the  front  stall  of  the  bridle  was  a  steel  plate, 
with  apertures  for  the  eyes  and  nostrils,  having  in  the  midst  a 
short,  sharp  pike,  projecting  from  the  forehead  of  the  horse  like 
the  horn  of  the  fabulous  unicorn. 

7.  But  habit  had  made  the  endurance  of  this  load  of  panoply 
a  second  nature,  both  to  the  knight  and  his  gallant  charger. 
Numbers,  indeed,  of  the  western  warriors  who  hurried  to  Pales- 
tine died  ere  they  became  inured  to  the  burning  climate ;  but 
there  were  others  to  whom  that  climate  became  innocent,  and 
even  friendly,  and  among  this  fortunate  number  was  the  solitary 
horseman  who  now  traversed  the  border  of  the  Dead  Sea. 

8.  Nature,  which  cast  his  limbs  in  a  mold  of  uncommon 
strength,  fitted  to  wear  his  linked  hauberk  with  as  much  ease  as 
if  the  meshes  had  been  formed  of  cobwebs,  had  endowed  him 

*  Pennoncelle,  a  small  flag  or  banner. 


^78  SANDERS'    UNI0NSERIE8. 

with  a  constitution  as  strong  as  his  limbs,  and  whicli  bade 
defiance  to  almost  ail  changes  of  climate,  as  well  as  to  fatigue 
and  privations  of  every  kind.  His  disposition  seemed,  in  some 
degree,  to  partake  of  the  qualities  of  his  bodily  frame ;  and  as 
the  one  possessed  great  strength  and  endurance,  united  with  the 
power  of  violent  exertion,  the  other,  under  a  calm  and  undis- 
tu"bed  semblance,  had  much  of  the  fiery  and  enthusiastic  love 
of  glory  which  constituted  the  principal  attribute  of  the  re- 
aowned  Norman  line,  and  had  rendered  them  sovereigns  in 
every  corner  of  Europe  where  they  had  drawn  their  adventurous 
swords. 

9.  Nature  had,  however,  her  demands  for  refreshment  and 
repose,  even  on  the  iron  frame  and  patient  disposition  of  the 
Knight  of  the  Sleeping  Leopard ;  and  at  noon,  when  the  Dead 
Sea  lay  at  some  distance  on  his  right,  he  joyfully  hailed  the  sight 
of  two  or  three  palm  trees,  which  arose  beside  the  well  which 
was  assigned  for  his  midday  station.  His  good  horse,  too,  which 
had  plodded  forward  with  the  steady  endurance  of  his  master, 
now  lifted  his  head,  expanded  his  nostrils,  and  quickened  his 
pace,  as  if  he  snuffed  afar  ofi"  the  living  waters,  which  marked 
the  place  of  repose  and  refreshment.  But  labor  and  danger 
were  doomed  to  intervene  ere  the  horse  or  horseman  reached  the 
desired  spot. 

10.  As  the  Knight  of  the  Couchant  Leopard  continued  to  fix 
his  eyes  attentively  on  the  yet  distant  cluster  of  palm  trees,  it 
seemed  to  him  as  if  some  object  was  moving  among  them.  The 
distant  form  separated  itself  from  the  trees,  which  partly  hid  its 
motions,  and  advanced  towards  the  knight  with  a  speed  which 
soon  showed  a  mounted  horseman,  whom  his  turban,  long  spear, 
and  green  caftan  floating  in  the  wind,  on  his  nearer  approach, 
proved  to  be  a  Saracen  cavalier*  "  In  the  desert,"  saith  an 
Eastern  proverb,  ''  no  man  meets  a  friend.''  The  crusader  was 
totally  indifferent  whether  the  infidel,  who  now  approached  on 
his  gallant  barb,  as  if  borne  on  the  wings  of  an  eagle,  came  as 


*  This  Saracen  cavalier  turns  out,  in  the  course  of  the  story,  {Thi 
T-xii^man)  to  be^he  celebrated  Salatlin.     See  Note  on  Exercise  LXXVIII 


RHETORICAL    READER.  279 

friend  or  foe — perhaps,  as  a  vowed  champion  of  the  cross,  he 
might  rather  liave  preferred  the  latter.  He  disengae:ed  hig 
lance  from  his  saddle,  seized  it  with  the  right  hand,  placed  it  in 
rest  with  its  point  half  elevated,  gathered  up  the  reins  in  the 
left,  waked  his  horse's  mettle  with  the  spur,  and  prepared  to 
encounter  the  stranger  with  the  calm  self-confidence  belonging 
to  the  victor  in  many  contests. 

11.  The  Saracen  came  on  at  the  speedy  gallop  of  an  Arab 
horseman,  managing  his  steed  more  by  his  limbs,  and  the  inflec- 
tion of  his  body,  than  by  any  use  of  the  reins  which  hung  loose 
in  his  left  hand ;  so  that  he  was  enabled  to  wield  the  light, 
round  buckler  of  the  skin  of  the  rhinoceros,  ornamented  with 
silver  loops,  which  he  wore  on  his  arm,  swinging  it  as  if  he 
meant  to  oppose  its  slender  circle  to  the  formidable  thrust  of  the 
western  lance.  His  own  long  spear  was  not  couched  or  leveled  like 
that  of  his  antagonist,  but  grasped  by  the  middle  with  his  right 
hand,  and  brandished  at  arm's  length  above  his  head.  As  the 
cavalier  approached  his  enemy  at  full  career,  he  seemed  to 
expect  that  the  Knight  of  the  Leopard  would  put  his  horse  to 
the  gallop  to  encounter  him. 

12.  But  the  Christian  knight,  well  acquainted  with  the  cus- 
toms of  Eastern  warriors,  did  not  mean  to  exhaust  his  good 
horse  by  any  unnecessary  exertion ;  and,  on  the  contrary,  made 
a  dead  halt,  confident  that  if  the  enemy  advanced  to  the  actual 
shock,  his  own  weight,  and  that  of  his  powerful  charger,  would 
give  him  sufl&cient  advantage,  without  the  additional  momentum 
of  rapid  motion  Equally  sensible  and  apprehensive  of  such  a 
probable  result,  the  Saracen  cavalier,  when  he  had  approached 
towards  the  Christian  within  twice  the  length  of  his  lance, 
wheeled  his  steed  to  the  left  with  inimitable  dexterity,  and  rode 
twice  around  his  antagonist,  who  turning  without  quitting  his 
ground,  and  presenting  his  front  constantly  to  his  enemy,  frus- 
trated his  attempts  to  attack  him  on  an  unguarded  point;  so 
that  tlie  Saracen,  wheeling  his  horse,  was  fain  to  retreat  to  the 
distance  of  a  hundred  yards. 

13.  A  .second  time,  like  a  hawk  attacking  a  heron,  the 
heathen  renewed  the  char":e,  and   a   second   time  was   fain   to 


280  SANDERS      UNION    SERIES. 

retreat  without  coming  to  a  close  struggle.  A  third  tine  ho 
approached  in  the  same  manner,  when  the  Christian  knight, 
desirous  to  terminate  this  illusory  warfare,  in  which  he  might 
at  length  have  been  worn  out  by  the  activity  of  his  foeman, 
suddenly  seized  the  mace  which  hung  at  his  saddle  bow,  and, 
with  a  strong  hand  and  unerring  aim,  hurled  it  against  the  head 
cf  the  emir;  for  such,  and  not  less,  his  enemy  appeared. 

14.  The  Saracen  was  just  aware  of  the  formidable  missile  la 
lime  to  interpose  his  light  buckler  betwixt  the  mace  and  his 
head ;  but  the  violence  of  the  blow  forced  the  buckler  down  on 
his  turban,  and  though  that  defense  also  contributed  to  deaden 
it?  violence,  the  Saracen  was  beaten  from  his  horse.  Ere  the 
Christian  could  avail  himself  of  this  mishap,  his  nimble  foeman 
sprang  from  the  ground,  and,  calling  on  his  steed,  which 
instantly  returned  to  his  side,  he  leaped  into  his  seat  without 
touching  the  stirrup,  and  regained  all  the  advantage  of  which 
the  Knight  of  the  Leopard  hoped  to  deprive  him. 

15.  But  the  latter  had  in  the  mean  while  recovered  his  mace, 
and  the  Eastern  cavalier,  who  remembered  the  strength  and 
dexterity  with  which  his  antagonist  had  aimed  it,  seemed  to 
keep  cautiously  out  of  reach  of  that  weapon,  of  which  he  had  so 
lately  felt  the  force ;  while  he  showed  his  purpose  of  waging  a 
distant  warfare  with  missile  weapons  of  his  own.  Planting  his 
long  spear  in  the  sand  at  a  distance  fron?  the  scene  of  combat,  he 
si  rung  with  great  address  a  short  bow,  which  he  carried  at  his 
back,  and  putting  his  horse  to  the  gallop,  once  more  described 
two  or  three  circles  of  a  wider  extent  than  formerly,  in  the 
course  of  which  he  discharged  six  arrows  at  the  Christian  with 
such  unerring  skill,  that  the  goodness  of  his  harness  alone  saved 
him  from  being  wounded  in  as  many  places.  The  seventh  shaft 
apparently  found  a  less  perfect  part  of  the  armor,  and  the 
Christian  dropped  heavily  from  his  horse. 

16.  But  what  was  the  surprise  of  the  Saracen,  when,  dis- 
mounting to  examine  the  condition  of  his  prostrate  enemy,  he 
found  himself  suddenly  within  the  grasp  of  the  European,  who 
had  had  recourse  to  this  artifice  to  bring  his  enemy  within  his 
reach.     Even  in  this  deadly  grapple,  the  Saracen  was  saved  by 


RHETORICAL    READER.  281 

his  agility  and  presence  of  mind.  He  unloosed  the  sword  belt, 
in  which  the  Knight  of  the  Leopard  had  fixed  his  hold,  and 
thus  eluding  his  fatal  grasp,  mounted  his  horse,  which  seemed 
to  watch  his  motions  with  the  intelligence  of  a  human  being, 
and  again  rode  oflf.  But  in  the  last  encounter  the  Saracen  had 
lost  his  sword  and  his  quiver  of  arrows,  both  of  which  were 
attached  to  the  girdle,  which  he  was  obliged  to  abandon.  Ho 
had  also  lost  his  turban  in  the  struggle.  These  disaivantages 
seamed  to  incline  the  Moslem  to  a  truce :  he  approached  tho 
Christian  with  his  right  hand  extended,  but  no  longer  in  a 
menacing  attitude. 

17-  "There  is  truce  betwixt  our  nations,"  he  said,  in  the' 
lingua  franca  commonly  used  for  the  purpose  of  communication 
with  the  crusaders ;  "  wherefore  should  there  be  war  betwixt 
thee  and  me?     Let  there  be  peace  betwixt  us." 

"  I  am  well  contented,"  answered  he  of  the  Couchant  Leop- 
ard ;  "  but  what  security  dost  thou  offer  that  thou  wilt  observe 
the  truce  ?" 

"  The  word  of  a  follower  of  the  Prophet  was  never  broken," 
answered  the  emir.  "  It  is  thou,  brave  Nazarene,  from  whom  I 
should  demand  security,  did  I  not  know  that  treason  seldom 
dwells  with  courage." 

18.  The  crusader  felt  that  the  confidence  of  the  Moslem  made 
him  ashamed  of  his  own  doubts. 

"  By  the  cross  of  my  sword,"  he  said,  laying  his  hand  on 
the  weapon  as  he  spoke,  "  I  will  be  true  companion  to  thee, 
Saracen,  while  our  fortune  wills  that  we  remain  in  company 
together." 

'^  By  Mohammed,  Prophet  of  God,  and  by  Allah,  God  of  the 
Prophet,"  replied  his  late  foeman,  "  there  is  not  treachery  in 
my  heart  towards  thee.  And  now  wend  we  to  yonder  fountain, 
for  the  hour  of  rest  is  at  hand,  and  the  stream  had  hardly 
touched  my  lip  when  I  was  called  to  battle  by  thy  approach." 

The  Knight  of  the  Couchant  Leopard  yielded  a  ready  and 
courteous  assent;  and  the  late  foes,  without  an  angry  look  or 
gesture  of  doubt,  rode  side  by  side  to  the  little  cluster  of  palm 
trees. 


282  SANi)ERS'    I3NI0N    SERIES. 


EXERCISE  LXXVIII. 

Saladjn,  the  celebrated  Sultan  of  Syria  and  Egypt,  whose  virtnes  and 
whose  courage  have  been  equally  lauded  by  both  Christiana  and  Moham- 
medans, was  born  in  1137,  and  died  of  a  bilious  fever,  after  twelve  days' 
illness,  in  the  year  1193.  He  was  a  man  of  noble,  generous  disposition, 
which  characteristic  feature  is  finely  brought  out  in  the  following  touching 
•sene. 

SALADIN  AND  MALEK  ADHEL. 

NXW  MONXELT  BIAOAZINX. 

Attendant.  A  stranger  craves  admittance  to  your  Highness. 

Saladin.  Whence  comes  he  ? 

Attendant.  That  I  know  not. 
Enveloped  with  a  vestment  of  strange  form, 
His  countenance  is  hidden ;  but  his  step, 
His  lofty  port,  his  voice  in  vain  disguised, 
Proclaim, — if  that  I  dare  pronounce  it, — 

Saladin.  Whom? 

Attendant.  Thy  royal  brother ! 

Saladin.  Bring  him  instantly.     [^Exit  Attendant.'] 
Now,  with  his  specious,  smooth,  persuasive  tongue. 
Fraught  with  some  wily  subterfuge,  he  thinks 
To  dissipate  my  anger.     He  shall  die ! 

[^Enter  Attendant  and  Malek  Adhel.] 
Leave  us  together.    [^Exit  Attendant.']    ^^Aside.]    I  should  know 

that  form. 
Now  summon  all  thy  fortitude,  my  soul, 
Nor,  though  thy  blood  cry  for  him,  spare  the  guilty  I 
[_Aloud.]     Well,  stranger,  speak ;  but  first  unvail  thyself. 
For  Saladin  must  view  the  form  that  fronts  him. 

Malek  Adhel.  Behold  it,  then  ! 
.    Saladin.  I  see  a  traitor's  visage. 

Malek  Adhel.  A  brother's  ! 

Saladin.  No ! 
Saladin  owns  no  kindred  with  a  villain. 

Malek  Adhel.  0,  patience.  Heaven  !  Had  any  tongue  but  thine 
lltteied  that  word,  it  ne'er  should  speak  another. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  283 

Saladin.  And  why  not  now  ?     Can  this  heart  be  more  pierced 
By  Malek  Adhel's  sword  than  by  his  deeds  ? 
0,  thou  hast  made  a  desert  of  this  bosom  I 
For  open  candor,  planted  sly  disguise  j 
For  confidence,  suspicion ;  and  the  glow 
Of  generous  friendship,  tenderness  and  love, 
Forever  banished  !     Whither  can  I  turn, 
When  he  by  blood,  by  gratitude,  by  faith, 
By  every  tie,  bound  to  support,  forsakes  me  ? 
Who,  who  can  stand,  when  Malek  Adhel  falls  ? 
Henceforth  I  turn  me  from  the  sweets  of  love : 
The  smiles  of  friendship,  and  this  glorious  world, 
In  which  all  find  some  heart  to  rest  upon, 
Shall  be  to  Saladin  a  cheerless  void, — 
His  brother  has  betrayed  him ! 

Malek  Adhel.  Thou  art  softened ; 
I  am  thy  brother,  then ;  but  late  thou  saidst, — 
My  tongue  can  never  utter  the  base  title  ! 

Saladin.  Was  it  traitor  ?     True  ! 
Thou  hast  betrayed  me  in  my  fondest  hopes ! 
Villain?     'Tis  just;  the  title  is  appropriate! 
Dissembler  ?     'Tis  not  written  in  thy  face ; 
No,  nor  imprinted  on  that  specious  brow; 
But  on  this  breaking  heart  the  name  is  stamped, 
Forever  stamped,  with  that  of  Malek  Adhel! 
Thinkest  thou  I'm  softened  ?     By  Mohammed  !  these  hands 
Should  crush  these  aching  eye-balls,  ere  a  tear 
Fall  from  them  at  thy  fate  !     0  monster,  monster  I 
The  brate  that  tears  the  infant  from  its  nurse 
Is  excellent  to  thee ;  for  in  his  form 
The  impulse  of  his  nature  may  be  read ; 
But  thou,  so  beautiful,  so  proud,  so  noble, 
0,  what  a  wretch  art  thou  !     0  !  can  a  term 
In  all  the  various  tongues  of  man  be  found 
To  match  thy  infamy  ? 

Malek  Adhel.  Go  on  !  go  on  ! 
'Tis  but  a  little  time  to  hear  thee,  Saladin  j 


284  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES. 

And,  bursting  at  thy  feet;,  this  heart  will  prove 
Its  penitence,  at  least. 

Saladin.  That  were  an  end  ^ 

Too  noble  for  a  traitor !     The  bowstring  is 
A  more  appropriate  finish  !     Thou  shalt  die  ! 

Malek  Adhel.  And  death  were  welcome  at  another's  mandaif  1 
What,  what  have  I  to  live  for  ?     Be  it  so, 
If  that,  in  all  thy  armies,  can  be  found 
An  executing  hand. 

Saladin.  0,  doubt  it  not ! 
They're  eager  for  the  office.     Perfidy, 
So  black  as  thine,  effaces  from  their  minds 
All  memory  of  thy  former  excellence. 

Malek  Adhel.  Defer  not,  then,  their  wishes.     Saladin, 
If  e'er  this  form  was  joyful  to  thy  sight, 
This  voice  seemed  grateful  to  thine  ear,  accede 
To  my  last  prayer : — 0,  lengthen  not  this  scene, 
To  which  the  agonies  of  death  were  pleasing  I 
Let  me  die  speedily ! 

Saladin.  This  very  hour ! 
[Aside."]     For,  0,  the  more  I  look  upon  that  face, 
The  more  I  hear  the  accents  of  that  voice. 
The  monarch  softens,  and  the  judge  is  lost 
In  all  the  brother's  weakness ;  yet  such  guilt, — 
Such  vile  ingratitude, — it  calls  for  vengeance ; 
And  vengeance  it  shall  have  !     What,  ho  !  who  waits  there  ? 

\_Enter  Attendant.'] 

Attendant.  Did  your  Highness  call  ? 

Saladin.  Assemble  quickly 
My  forces  in  the  court.     Tell  them  they  come 
To  view  the  death  of  yonder  bosom  traitor. 
And,  bid  them  mark,  that  he  who  will  not  spare 
His  brother  when  he  errs,  expects  obedience. 
Silent  obedience,  from  his  followers.     \^Exit  Attendant.] 

Malek  Adhel.  Now,  Saladin, 
The  word  is  givan ;  I  have  nothing  more 
To  fear  from  thee,  my  brother.     I  am  not 


RHETORICAL    READER. 


285 


A^bout  to  crave  a  miserable  life. 
Without  thy  love,  thy  honor,  thy  esteem, 
liife  were  a  burden  to  me.     Think  not,  either, 
The  justness  of  thy  sentence  I  would  question. 
But  one  request  now  trembles  on  my  tongue, — 
One  wish  still  clinging  round  the  heart ;  which  soon 
Not  even  that  shall  torture, — will  it,  then, 
rhinkest  thou,  thy  slumbers  render  quieter. 
Thy  waking  thoughts  more  pleasing,  to  reflect, 
That  when  thy  voice  had  doomed  a  brother's  death, 
The  last  request  which  e'er  was  his  to  utter 
Thy  harshness  made  him  carry  to  the  grave  ? 

Saladin.  Speak,  then ;  but  ask  thyself  if  thou  hast  reason 
To  look  for  much  indulgence  here. 

Malek  Adhel.  I  have  not ! 
Yet  will  I  ask  for  it.     We  part  forever ; 
This  is  our  last  farewell ;  the  king  is  satisfied ; 
The  judge  has  spoke  the  irrevocable  sentence. 
None  sees,  none  hears,  save  that  Omniscient  Power, 
Which,  trust  me,  will  not  frown  to  look  upon 
Two  brothers  part  like  such.     When,  in  the  face 
Of  forces  once  my  own,  I'm  led  to  death, 
Then  be  thine  eye  unmoistened ;  let  thy  voice 
Then  speak  my  doom  untrembling  j  then, 
Unmoved,  behold  this  stiff  and  blackened  corse. 
But  now  I  ask, — nay,  turn  not,  Saladin  I — 
I  ask  one  single  pressure  of  thy  hand ; 
From  that  stern  eye,  one  solitary  tear,— 
0,  torturing  recollection  ! — one  kind  word 
From  the  loved  tongue  which  once  breathed  naught  but  kindness 
Still  silent  ?     Brother  !  friend  !  beloved  companion 
Of  all  my  youthful  sports  ! — are  they  forgotten  ? — 
Strike  me  with  deafness,  make  me  blind,  0  Heaven  I 
Let  me  not  see  this  unforgiving  man 
Smile  at  my  agonies  !  nor  hear  that  voice 
Pronounce  my  doom,  which  would  not  say  one  word, 
One  little  word,  whose  cherished  memory 


286  SANDERS'    UNION     SERIES. 

Would  soothe  the  struggles  of  departing  life ! 
Yet,  yet  thou  wilt !     0,  turn  thee,  Saladin  ! 
Look  on  my  face, — thou  canst  not  spurn  me  then ; 
Look  on  the  once-loved  face  of  Malek  Adhel 
For  the  last  time,  and  call  him — 

Saladin.  [^Seizing  his  hand.']     Brother!  brother! 

Malek  Adhel.  [^Breaking  away.']     Now  call  thy  followers j 
Death  has  not  now 
A.  single  pang  in  store.     Proceed  !  I'm  ready. 

Saladin.  0,  art  thou  ready  to  forgive,  my  brother  ? 
To  pardon  him  who  found  one  single  error, 
One  little  failing,  'mid  a  splendid  throng 
Of  glorious  qualities — 

Malek  Adhel.  0,  stay  thee,  Saladin  I 
I  did  not  ask  for  life.     I  only  wished 
To  carry  thy  forgiveness  to  the  grave. 
No,  Emperor,  the  loss  of  Cesarea 
Cries  loudly  for  the  blood  of  Malek  Adhel. 
Thy  soldiers,  too,  demand  that  he  who  lost 
What  cost  them  many  a  weary  hour  to  gain, 
Should  expiate  his  offenses  with  his  life. 
Lo !  even  now  they  crowd  to  view  my  death, 
Thy  just  impartiality.     I  go  ! 
Pleased  by  my  fate  to  add  one  other  leaf 
To  thy  proud  wreath  of  glory.     [^Going.] 

Saladin.  Thou  shalt  not.     \^Enter  Attendant.] 

Attendant.  My  lord,  the  troops  assembled  by  your  order 
Tumultuous  throng  the  courts.     The  prince's  death 
Not  one  of  them  but  vows  he  will  not  suffer. 
The  mutes  have  fled ;  the  very  guards  rebel. 
Nor  think  I,  in  this  city's  spacious  round, 
Can  e'er  be  found  a  hand  to  do  the  ofl&ce. 

Malek  Adhel.  0  faithful  friends  I     \^To  Attendant.]     Thmo 
shalt. 

Attendant.  Mine?     Never! 
The  other  first  shall  lop  it  from  the  body. 

Saladin.  They  teach  the  Emperor  his  duty  well. 


RHETORICAL     READER.  2^7 

Tell  then)  he  thanks  them  for  it.     Tell  them  too, 
That  ere  their  opposition  reached  our  ears, 
Saladin  had  forgiven  Malek  Adhel. 

Attendant.  0  joyful  news  ! 
I  haste  to  gladden  many  a  gallant  heart, 
And  dry  the  tear  on  many  a  hardy  cheek, 
Unused  tv)  such  a  visitor.     \^Exit.'\ 

Saladin.  These  men,  the  meanest  in  society. 
The  outcasts  of  the  earth, — by  war,  by  nature, 
Flardened,  and  rendered  callous, — these  who  claim 
No  kindred  with  thee, — who  have  never  heard 
The  accents  of  affection  from  thy  lips, — 

0,  these  can  cast  aside  their  vowed  allegiance, 
Throw  off  their  long  obedience,  risk  their  lives, 
To  save  thee  from  destruction.     While  I, 

T,  who  can  not,  in  all  my  memory, 

Call  back  one  danger  which  thou  hast  not  shared, 

One  day  of  grief,  one  night  of  revelry, 

Which  thy  resistless  kindness  hath  not  soothed. 

Or  thy  gay  smile  and  converse  rendered  sweeter, — 

1,  who  have  thrice  in  the  ensanguined  field. 

When  death  seemed  certain,  only  uttered — "  Brother  T 
And  seen  that  form,  like  lightning,  rush  between 
8aladin  and  his  foes,  and  that  brave  breast 
Dauntless  exposed  to  many  a  furious  blow 
Intended  for  my  own, — I  could  forget 
That  'twas  to  thee  I  owed  the  very  breath 
Which  sentenced  thee  to  perish  !     0,  'tis  shameful  I 
Thou  canst  not  pardon  me  ! 

Malek  Adhel.  By  these  tears,  I  can  I 
0  brother !  from  this  very  hour,  a  new, 
A  glorious  life  commences  !     I  am  all  thine  ! 
Again  the  day  of  gladness  or  of  anguish 
Shall  Malek  Adhel  share ;  and  oft  again 
May  this  sword  fence  thee  in  the  bloody  field. 
Henceforth,  Saladin, 
My  heart,  my  soul,  my  sword,  are  thine  forever  I 


2^8  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES. 


EXERCISE  LXXIX. 

John  James  Attdubon,  the  great  American  ornithologist,  was  born  on  • 
plantation  in  Louisiana,  May  4th,  1780,  and  died  in  New  York  city,  January 
27th,  1851.  His  early  childhood  was  marked  by  a  passion  for  the  study  of 
birds.  He  soon  acquired  skill  in  drawing  their  forms,  and  went  early  to 
Prance  to  perfect  himself  in  that  art.  On  his  return,  after  marrying  a  lady 
of  congenial  tastes,  he  entered  upon  other  pursuits,  as  a  business;  giving 
himself  largely,  however,  to  the  study  of  birds,  as  a  pleasure.  But  the  birds 
happily  got  the  mastery,  and  thenceforward  absorbed  his  whole  time  and 
attention.  With  what  zest  he  pursued  his  inquiries,  the  following  extract 
will  show.  The  results  of  his  labors  he  has  embodied  in  two  splendid  works — 
" Birds  of  America"  and  "Ornithological  Biographies" — works  which  fully 
entitle  him  to  the  grateful  and  lasting  remembrance  of  all  his  countrymen 

THE  LIFE  OF  A  NATURALIST. 

JOHW  JAMES  AUDXTBON. 

1.  Reader,  the  life  which  I  have  led  has  been  in  some  respects 
a  singular  one.  Think  of  a  person,  intent  on  such  pursuits  as 
mine  have  been,  arouaed  at  early  dawn  from  his  rude  couch  on 
the  alder-fringed  brook  of  some  northern  valley,  or  in  the  midst 
of  some  yet  unexplored  forest  of  the  west,  or,  perhaps,  on  the  soft 
and  warm  sands  of  the  Florida  shores,  and  listening  to  the  pleas- 
ing melodies  of  songsters  innumerable,  saluting  the  magnificent 
orb,  from  whose  radiant  influence  the  creatures  of  many  worlds 
receive  life  and  light. 

2.  Refreshed  and  re-invigorated  by  healthful  rest,  he  starts 
upon  his  feet,  gathers  up  his  store  of  curiosities,  buckles  on  his 
knapsack,  shoulders  his  trusty  firelock,  says  a  kind  word  to  his 
faithful  dog,  and  recommences  his  pursuit  of  zoological  know- 
lodge.  Now  the  morning  is  spent,  and  a  squirrel  or  a  trout 
aff'ords  him  a  repast.  Should  the  day  be  warm,  he  reposes  for  a 
time  under  the  shade  of  some  tree.  The  woodland  choristers 
tgain  burst  forth  into  song,  and  he  starts  anew  to  wander  wher- 
ever his  fancy  may  direct  him,  or  the  objects  of  his  search  may 
lead  him  in  pursuit. 

3.  When  evening  approaches,  and  the  birds  are  seen  betaking 
themselves  to  their  retreats,  he  looks  for  some  place  of  safety, 
erects  his  shed  cf  green  boughs,  kindles  his  fire,  prepares  hia 


RHETORICAL    READER.  289 

meal,  and  as  the  widgeon  or  blue-winged  teal,  or,  perhaps,  the 
breast  of  a  turkey  or  a  steak  of  venison,  sends  its  delicious  per- 
fumes abroad,  he  enters  into  his  parchment-bound  journal  the 
remarkable  incidents  and  facts  that  have  occurred  in  the  course 
of  the  day. 

4.  Darkness  has  now  drawn  her  sable  curtain  over  the  scene ; 
bis  repast  is  finished,  and  kneeling  on  the  earth,  he  raises  his 
soul  to  Heaven,  grateful  for  the  protection  that  has  been  granted 
to  him,  and  the  sense  of  the  divine  presence  in  this  solitary 
place.  Then  wishing  a  cordial  good-night  to  all  the  dear  friends 
at  home,  the  American  woodsman  wraps  himself  up  in  his 
blanket,  and,  closing  his  eyes,  soon  falls  into  that  comfortable 
pi»eep  which  never  fails  him  on  such  occasions. 


EXERCISE  LXXX. 

Susan  Fknimore  Cooper  is  the  eldest  daughter  of  the  great  American 
novelist.  As  a  writer,  she  is  best  known  by  her  "  Rural  Hours" — a  work, 
in  journal  form,  devoted  to  the  record  of  scenes  and  circumstances  in  rural 
life,  during  the  changes  of  the  several  seasons,  all  which  bear  the  impress 
of  fresh  observation  and  the  charm  of  easy,  natural  description.  In  1860 
appeared  her  last  work — "  Pages  and  Pictures  from  the  Writings  of  James 
Fenimore  Cooper."  This  we  regard  as  a  most  valuable  contribution  to  the 
history  of  literature :  giving,  as  it  does,  in  the  form  of  notes,  a  most  interest- 
ing view  of  the  circumstances  under  which  each  of  Cooper's  novels  came  into 
being.  The  notes,  moreover,  discover  no  small  sagacity  in  the  matter  of 
criticism.  They  show,  also,  thought,  culture,  refinement,  high  moral  tone, 
good  sense,  and  a  style  at  once  effective  and  graceful. 

The  following  is  from  her  not«  on  the  character  of  "  Red  Rover,"  who, 
according  to  the  novel,  despite  of  the  happiest  early  training,  had  become  t. 
f  irate,  but  is  suddenly,  by  the  sound  of  a  sister's  voice,  awakened  to  the 
recollection  of  his  better  days,  and  thenceforward  leads  the  life  of  a  repentant, 
reformed  man.  The  story  is  recited  by  her  in  order  to  show  the  probability 
of  the  fiction  by  an  appeal  to  the  recorded  experience  of  fact. 

Or  nith  ol'ogist  (Ornitho,  bird,  and  Logist,  a  reasoner),  is  one  wha 
ttudiee  and  reasons  about  birds,  and,  therefore,  understands  their  babita« 
character,  and  scientific  classification. 

1*  6R 


290  8ANIiERS'     UNION     SERTEB. 

THE  MINISTRY  OF  THE  DOVES. 

SnSAS  FESIMvEB  COOrSR. 

1.  On  the  shores  of  Southern  Florida,  and  among  the  rockj 
islets,  or  ''keys,"  of  the  Gulf  of  Mexico,  there  is  a  rare  and 
beautiful  bird,  to  which  the  name  of  the  Zenaida  Dove  has  been 
given  by  J^rince  Charles  Buonaparte,  the  ornithologist.  This 
creature  is  very  beautiful  in  its  delicate  form  and  in  its  coloring 
of  a  warm  and  rosy  gray,  barred  with  brown  and  white  on  back 
and  wing ;  its  breast  bears  a  shield  of  pure  and  vivid  blue, 
bordered  with  gold,  its  cheeks  are  marked  with  ultramarine,  and 
its  slender  legs  and  feet  are  deep  rose-color  tipped  with  black 
nails.  Innocent  and  gentle,  like  others  of  its  tribe,  this  little 
creature  flits  to  and  fro,  in  small  family  groups,  over  the  rocky 
islets,  and  along  the  warm,  sandy  beaches  of  the  Gulf — "  Tampa's 
desert  strand.'' 

••*0n  that  lone  shore,  loud  moans  the  sea." 

2.  There  are  certain  keys,  wheie  it  loves  especially  to  alight, 
attracted  by  the  springs  which  here  and  there  gush  up  pure  and 
fresh  among  the  coral  rocks.  The  low  note  of  this  bird  is  more 
than  usually  sweet,  pure,  and  mournful  in  its  tone.  But  the 
doves  are  not  the  only  visitors  of  those  rare  springs.  A  few 
years  since,  pirates  haunted  the  same  spots,  seeking,  like  the 
birds,  water  from  their  natural  fountains. 

3.  It  chanced  one  day  that  a  party  of  those  fierce  outlaws 
came  to  a  desolate  key  to  fill  their  water-casks,  ere  sailing  on 
some  fresh  cruise  of  violence.  A  little  flock  of  the  rosy-gray 
doves — and  their  flocks  are  ever  few  and  rare — were  flitting  and 
cocing  in  peace  about  the  rocky  basin  when  the  pirates  appeared  ; 
in  afi'right  they  took  wing,  and  flew  away.  The  casks  were 
filled,  and  the  ruffian  crew  rowed  their  boat  ofi"  to  their  craft  lying 
at  anchor  in  the  distance.  For  some  reason,  apparently  acci^ 
dental,  one  of  the  band  remained  awhile  on  the  island  alone. 
In  a  quiet  evening  hour,  he  threw  himfielf  on  the  rocks,  near  the 
spring,  looking  over  the  broad  sea,  where  here  and  there  &  low 
desert  islet  rose  from  the  deep,  while  t}je  vessel  with  which  his 


RHETORIOA  r,    RKAHER.  291 

own  falG  nad   long  been  connected   lay  idle,  with  furled  canvas, 
in  the  ofl&ng. 

4.  Presently  the  little  doves,  seeing  all  quiet  again,  returned 
To  their  favorite  spring,  flitting  to  and  fro  in  peace,  uttering  to 
each  other  their  low  gentle  notes,  so  caressing,  and  so  plaintive. 
It  may  have  been  that  in  the  wild  scenes  of  his  turbulent  career 
the  wretched  man  had  never  known  the  force  of  solitude.  He 
was  now  gradually  overpowered  by  its  mysterious  influences, 
pressing  upon  heart  and  mind.  He  felt  himself  to  be  alone  with 
his  Maker.  The  works  of  the  Holy  One  surrounded  him — the 
pure  heavens  hanging  over  his  guilty  head,  the  sea  stretching 
in  silent  grandeur  far  into  the  unseen  distance.  One  object 
alone,  bearing  the  mark  of  man,  lay  within  range  of  his  eye — 
that  guilty  craft,  which,  like  an  evil  phantom,  hovered  in  the 
ofl&ng,  brooding  sin. 

5.  The  sounds  most  familiar  to  him  for  years  had  been  curse, 
and  ribald  jest,  and  brutal  threat,  and  shriek  of  death.  But 
now  those  little  doves  came  hovering  about  him,  uttering  their 
guileless  notes  of  tenderness  and  innocence.  Far  away,  in  his 
native  woods,  within  sight  of  his  father's  roof,  he  had  often 
listened  in  boyhood  to  other  doves,  whose  notes,  like  these,  were 
pure  and  swaet.  Home  memories,  long  banished  from  his  breast, 
returned.  The  image  of  his  Christian  mother  stood  before  him. 
Those  little  doves,  still  uttering  their  low,  pure,  inoflfensive 
note,  seemed  bearing  to  him  the  far-oflf  echoes  of  every  sacred 
word  of  devout  faith,  of  pure  precept,  of  generous  feeling,  which, 
in  happier  years,  had  reached  his  ear.  A  fearful  consciousness 
of  guilt  came  over  the  wretched  man.  His  heart  was  utterly 
subdued.  The  stern  pride  of  manhood  gave  way.  A  powerful 
tide  of  contrition  swept  away  all  evil  barriers.  Bitter  tears  of 
Tsmorse  fell  upon  the  stone  on  which  hi&  head  rested.  And 
that  was  to  him  the  turning  point  of  life. 

G.  He  rose  from  the  rock  a  penitent,  firmly  resolved  to  retrace 
his  steps — to  return  to  better  things.  By  the  blessing  of  God, 
the  resolution  was  adhered  to.  He  broke  away  from  his  evil 
courses,  thrust  temptation  aside,  returned  to  his  native  soil  c6 
lead  a  life  of  penitence  and  hone*«t  toil.     Many  years  later  » 


292  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES. 

stranger  came  to  his  cabin,  in  the  wild  forests  of  the  ftonthem 
country,  a  man  venerable  in  mien,  shrewd  and  kindly  in  counte- 
nance— wandering  through  the  woods  on  pleasant  errands  of  his 
own  The  birds  of  that  region  were  the  stranger's  object.  The 
inmate  of  the  cabin  had  much  to  tell  on  this  subject;  and, 
gradually,  as  the  two  were  thrown  together  in  the  solitude  of 
the  forest,  the  heart  of  the  penitent  opened  to  his  companion. 
Hf  avowed  that  ho  loved  the  birds  of  heaven :  he  had  cause  to 
lovd  them— the  doves,  especially ;  they  had  been  as  friends  tu 
him ;  they  had  spoken  to  his  heart  in  the  most  solemn  hour  of 
life !  And  then  came  that  singular  confession.  The  traveler 
was  Audubon,*  the  great  ornithologist,  who  has  left  on  record 
in  his  works  this  striking  incident.  In  olden  times,  what  a 
beautiful  ballad  would  have  been  written  on  such  a  theme: 
fresh  and  wild  as  the  breeze  of  the  forest,  sweet  and  plaintive  as 
the  note  of  the  dove  I 


EXERCISE  LXXXI. 
THE  CHURCH  AT  BELEM. 

T.  NOON  TALFOtlBD. 

1.  The  church  at  Belem,  a  fortified  place  on  the  Tagus,  three 
or  four  miles  from  Lisbon,  where  the  kings  and  royal  family  of 
Portugal  have,  for  many  generations,  been  interred,  must  not 
be  forgotten.  It  is  one  of  the  most  ancient  buildings  in  the 
kingdom,  having  originally  been  erected  by  the  Romans,  and 
splendidly  adorned  by  the  Moorish  sovereigns.  Formed  of 
white  stone,  it  is  now  stained  to  a  reddish  brown  by  the  mere 
influence  of  years,  and  frowns  over  the  water  "  cased  in  the 
unfeeling  armor  of  old  time." 

2.  Its  shape  is  oblong,  its  sides  of  gigantic  proportion,  and  its 
massive  appearance  most  grand  and  awe-inspiring.     The  princi* 


*  See  Exercise  LXXIX. 

f  See  Note  on  Talfourd,  Exercise  XXXIX. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  29S 

pal  entrance  is  by  a  deep  archwaj ,  reaching  to  a  great  tight, 
and  circular  within,  ornamented  above  and  around  with  the 
most  crowded,  venerable,  and  yet  fantastic  devices — martyrs 
and  heroes  of  chivalry — swords  and  crosiers — monarchs  and 
saints — crosses  and  scepters — "  the  roses  and  flowers  of  kings," 
and  the  sad  emblems  of  mortality — all  wearing  the  stamp  of 
deep  antiquity,  all  appearing  carved  out  of  one  eternal  rock, 
and  promising,  by  their  air  of  solid  grandeur,  to  survive  as 
many  stupendous  changes  as  those  which  have  already  left  them 
unshaken. 

8.  The  interior  of  this  venerable  edifice  is  not  less  awe- 
breathing  or  substantial.  Eight  huge  pillars  of  barbaric  archi- 
tecture, and  covered  all  over  with  strange  figures  and  grotesque 
ornaments  in  relievo,*  support  the  roof,  which  is  white,  ponder- 
ous, and  of  a  noble  simplicity,  being  only  divided  into  vast 
square  compartments  by  the  beams  which  cross  it.  Such  a  pile, 
devoted  to  form  the  last  resting-place  of  a  line  of  kings  who 
have,  each  in  his  brief  span  of  timti,  held  the  fate  of  millions  at 
his  pleasure,  cannot  fail  to  excite  solemn  and  pensive  thought. 

4.  And  yet  what  are  the  feelings  thus  excited,  to  those 
meditations  to  which  the  great  repository  of  the  illustrious 
deceased  in  England  invites  us  ?  Bere  we  think  of  nothing  but 
the  perishableness  of  man  in  his  best  estate — the  emptiness  of 
human  honors — the  low  and  frail  nature  of  all  the  distinctions 
of  earth.  A  race  of  monarchs  occupy  but  a  narrow  vault :  they 
were  kings,  and  now  are  dust ;  and  this  idea  forced  home  upon 
us,  makes  us  feel  that  the  most  potent  and  enduring  of  worldly 
things — thrones,  dynasties,  and  tho  peaceable  succession  of  high 
families — are  but  as  feeble  shadows.  We  learn  only  to  feel  our 
weakness. 

5.  But,  in  the  sacred  place  where  all  that  could  perish  of  qui 
orators,  philosophers,  and  poets,  is  reposing,  we  feel  our  mortality 
only  to  lend  us  a  stronger  and  moro  ethereal  sense  of  our  etercal 
being.  Life  and  death  seem  met  together,  as  in  a  holy  fane,  in 
peaceful  conoord.     While  we  feel  that  the  mightiest  must  yield 

*  Relievo  {re  let'  vo),  prominence  of  figures  in  statuary,  &c. 


294  bANDERS'     UNION     SERIES. 

to  the  stern  law  of  necessity,  we  know  that  the  very  monuments 
which  record  the  decay  of  their  outward  frame,  are  so  many 
proofs  and  symbols  that  they  shall  never  really  expire. 

6.  We  feel  that  those  whose  remembrance  is  thus  extended 
beyond  the  desolating  power  of  the  grave,  over  whose  /amc 
death  and  mortal  accidents  have  no  power,  are  not  themselves 
destroyed.  And,  when  we  recollect  the  more  indestructible 
mon  iments  of  their  genius,  those  works,  which  live,  not  only  in 
the  libraries  of  the  studious,  but  in  the  hearts  and  imaginations 
of  men,  we  are  conscious  at  once,  that  the  spirit  which  con- 
ceived, and  the  souls  which  appreciate  and  love  them,  are  not 
of  the  earth,  earthy.  Our  thoughts  are  not  wholly  of  humilia- 
tion and  sorrow;  but  stretch  forward,  with  a  pensive  majesty, 
unto  the  permanent  and  the  immortal. 


EXERCISE  LXXXII. 

Antithesis,  whence  the  adjective  antithetical,  is  from  the  Greek 
\Anti,  against,  and  Thesis,  the  act  of  putting),  and  signifies  the  act 
of  putting  thinrs  over  against  one  another  for  the  purposes  of  comparison 
and  conti-ast.  Passages  of  this  sort  furnish  fine  exercises  for  practice 
in  reading 

SHORT  ANTITHETICAL  PASSAGES. 


THE    SPIRITUAL   AND   THE   NATURAL. 

1  COR.  CHAF.  XV. 

The  firsi  man  Adam  was  made  a  living  soul,  the  last  Adam 
was  made  a  quickening  spirit.  Howbeit,  that  was  not  first  which 
IS  spiritual  but  that  which  is  natural;  and  afterward  that  which 
is  spiritual  The  first  man  is  of  the  earth,  earthy :  the  second 
man  is  the  Lord  from  heaven.  As  is  the  earthy,  such  are  they, 
also,  that  a/e  earthy  :  and  as  is  the  heavenly,  such  are  they,  also, 
that  are  L  javenly.  And  as  w^e  have  borne  the  image  of  the 
earthy,  we  ^hall,  also,  bear  the  image  of  the  heavenly. 


RHETORICAL     HEADER.  295 


THE   BIBLE   ADAPTED    TO   ALL. 

MRS.  SARAH  tf.  ZUIS.* 

Simple  as  the  language  of  a  child — it  charms  the  most  fasti- 
dious taste.  Mournful  as  the  voice  of  grief — it  reaches  to  tho, 
highest  pitch  of  exultation.  Intelligible  to  the  unlearned  peasant 
— it  supplies  the  critic  and  the  sage  with  food  for  earnest  thought. 
Silent  and  secret  as  the  reproofs  of  conscience — it  echoes  be- 
neath the  vaulted  dome  of  the  cathedral,  and  shakes  the  trem- 
bling multitude.  The  last  companion  of  the  dying  and  desti- 
tute— it  seals  the  bridal  vow,  and  crowns  the  majesty  of  kings. 
Closed  in  the  heedless  grasp  of  the  luxurious  and  the  slothful 
— it  unfolds  its  awful  record  over  the  yawning  grave.  Bright 
and  joyous  as  the  morning  star  to  the  benighted  traveler — it 
rolls  like  the  waters  of  the  deluge  over  the  path  of  him  who 
willfully  mistakes  his  way. 

in. 

TACT    versus   TALENT. 

LONDON  ATLAS. 

Talent  is  something,  but  ta  st  is  everything.  Talent  is  serious, 
bober,  grave,  and  respectable :  tact  is  all  that,  and  more  too.  It 
is  not  a  sixth  sense,  but  it  is  the  life  of  all  the  five.  It  is  the 
open  eye,  the  quick  ear,  the  judging  taste,  the  keen  smell,  and 
the  lively  touch  j  it  is  the  interpreter  of  all  riddles,  the  sur- 
mounter  of  all  diflSculties,  the  remover  of  all  obstacles.  It  is 
useful  in  all  places,  and  at  all  times ;  it  is  useful  in  solitude,  for 
it  shows  a  man  his  way  into  the  world ;  it  is  useful  in  society, 
for  it  shows  him  his  way  through  the  world.  Talent  is  power, 
tact  is  skill ;  talent  is  weight,  tact  is  momentum ;  talent  knows 
what  to  do,  tact  knows  how  to  do  it ;  talent  makes  a  man  re- 
spectable, tact  will  make  him  respected ;  talent  is  wealth,  tact 
is  ready  money. 

*  Sarah  Stickney  Ellis,  wife  of  William  Ellis,  an  English  missionary, 
is  the  author  of  some  twenty  or  thirty  different  publications,  all  written 
in  excellent  style,  and  devoted  to  the  moral  and  intellectual  culture 
of  hei  own  sex 


296  SANDERS'     UNION    SERIES. 

IV. 
ROLLA   TO   THE   PERUVIANS. 

SHEBIDAW.* 

1.  They,  by  a  straoge  frenzy  driven,  fight  for  power,  foJ 
plunder,  and  extended  rule ; — we,  for  our  country,  our  altars, 
and  our  homes.  They  follow  an  adventurer  whom  they  fear, 
and  obey  a  power  which  they  hate ; — we  serve  a  monarch  whom 
we  love — a  God  whom  we  adore.  Where'er  they  move  in  anger, 
desolation  tracks  their  progress  !  Where'er  they  pause  in  amity, 
aflSiction  mourns  their  friendship. 

2.  They  boast  they  come  but  to  improve  our  state,  enlarge 
our  thoughts,  and  free  us  from  the  yoke  of  error  ! — Yes : — they 
will  give  enlightened  freedom  to  our  minds,  who  are  themselves 
the  slaves  of  passion,  avarice,  and  pride.  They  offer  us  their 
protection  ! — Yes,  such  protection  as  vultures  give  to  lambs — 
covering  and  devouring  them  1  They  call  on  us  to  barter  all  the 
good  we  have  inherited  and  proved,  for  the  desperate  chance  of 
something  better,  which  they  promise. 


Catiline's  forces  in  contrast  with  the  roman  army. 

oiozao.t 

Against  these  gallant  troops  of  your  adversary,  prepare,  0 
Romans,  your  garrisons  and  armies ;  and,  first,  to  that  maimed 
and  battered  gladiator  oppose  your  Consuls  and  Generals ;  next, 
against  that  miserable,  outcast  horde,  lead  forth  the  strength 
and  flower  of  all  Italy  1  On  the  one  side,  chastity  contends ;  on 
the  other,  wantonness ;  here  purity,  there  pollution ;  here  in- 
tegrity, there  treachery;  here  piety,  there  profaneness ;  here 
constancy,  there  rage ;  here  honesty,  there  baseness ;  here  con- 
tinence, there  lust;  in  short,  equity,  temperance,  fortitude,  pru 
dence,  struggle  with  iniquity,  luxury,  cowardice,  rashness ;  every 
virtue  with  every  vice;  and,  lastly,  the  contest  lies  between 
well-grounded  hope  and  absolute  despair. 

*  See  Note  on  Sheridan,  Exercise  XCV. 
t  See  Note  on  Exercise  LXX. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  29"? 

VI. 

CONTRASTS   IN    MAN. 

TO0Ha.« 

How  poor,  how  rich,  how  abject,  how  august, 

How  complicate,  how  wonderful  is  man ! 

How  passing  wonder  He  wb^  made  him  such ! 

Who  centered  in  our  make  such  strange  extremes ! 

A  beam  ethereal,  sullied  ana  absorpt ! 

Though  sullied  and  dishonored,  still  divine  I 

Dim  miniature  of  greatness  absolute  ! 

An  heir  of  glory!  a  frail  child  of  dust  I 

Helpless  immortal !  insect  infinite  ! 

A  worm !  a  god  ! — I  tremble  at  myself. 

0  what  a  miracle  to  man  is  man  ! 

Triumphantly  distressed !  what  joy!  what  dread! 

Alternately  transported  and  alarmed, 

What  can  preserve  my  life  ?  or  what  destroy  ? 

An  angel's  arm  can't  snatch  me  from  the  grave; 

Legions  of  angels  can't  conjiae  me  there ! 

vn 

THE- TRUE   CRITIC. 

But  where's  the  man  who  counsel  can  bestow, 

Still  pleased  to  teach,  and  yet  not  proud  to  know; 

Unbiased,  or  by  favor,  or  by  spite  j 

Not  dully  prepossessed,  nor  blindly  right; 

Though  learned,  well-bred;  and,  though  well-bred,  sincere; 

Modestly  bold  and  humanely  severe ; 

Who  to  a  friend  his  faults  can  freely  show. 

And  gladly  praise  the  merit  of  a  foe  j 

Blest  with  a  taste  exact,  but  unconfined ; 

A  knowledge  both  of  books  and  human-kind  ? 

*  See  Note  on  Young,  Exercise  CXXXVI. 
t  See  Exercise  CXLVIII. 
13*  R 


298  SANDERS'    UNION     SERIES. 

VIII. 
CHIVALRY   AND   PURITANISM. 

BANCROFT* 

1.  Historians  have  loved  to  eulogize  the  manners  and  virtues, 
the  glory  and  the  benefits  of  Chivalry.  Puritanism  accomplished 
for  mankind  far  more.  If  it  had  the  sectarian  crime  of  intoler- 
ance, chivalry  had  the  vices  of  dissoluteness.  The  Knights 
wore  brave  from  gallantry  of  spirit;  the  Puritans  from  the  fear 
of  God.  The  Knights  were  proud  of  loyalty  j  the  Puritans  of 
liberty.  The  Knights  did  homage  to  monarchs,  in  whose  smile 
they  beheld  honor,  whose  rebuke  was  the  wound  of  disgrace ; 
the  Puritans,  disdaining  ceremony,  would  not  bow  at  the  name 
of  Jesus. 

2.  Chivalry  delighted  in  outward  show,  favored  pleasure,  mul- 
tiplied amusement,  and  degraded  the  human  race  by  an  exclu- 
sive respect  for  the  privileged  classes ;  Puritanism  bridled  the 
passions,  commanded  the  virtues  of  self-denial,  and  rescued  the 
name  of  man  from  dishonor.  The  former  valued  courtesy;  the 
latter,  justice.  The  former  adorned  society  by  graceful  refine- 
ments; the  latter  founded  national  grandeur  on  universal  educa- 
tion. The  institutions  of  Chivalry  were  subverted  by  the  gra- 
dually-increasing weight,  and  knowledge,  and  opulence  of  the 
industrious  classes;  the  Puritans,  rallying  upon  those  classes, 
planted  in  their  hearts  the  undying  principles  of  democratic 
liberty. 

IX. 

HOMER   AND   VIRGIL. 

POPJS. 

Homer  was  the  greater  genius;  Virgil,  the  better  artist.  In 
one  we  most  admire  the  man  ;  in  the  other,  the  work.  Homer 
hurries  and  transports  us  with  a  commanding  impetuosity ; 
Virgil  leads  us  with  an  attractive  majesty :  Homer  scatters  with 
a  generous  profusion ;  Virgil  bestows  with  a  careful  magnificence : 
Homer,  like  the  Nile,  pours  out  his  riches  with  a  boundless  over- 
flow; Virgil,  like  a  river  in  its  banks,  with  a  gentle  and  constant 
stream.     When  we  behold  their  battles,  methinks  the  two  poets 

*  See  Note  on  Exercise  CXXXIII. 


r*HETORICAL    READER.  29v 

resemble  the  lieroes  they  celebrate  :  Homer,  boundless  and  irre- 
sistible as  Achilles,  bears  all  before  him,  and  shines  more  and 
more  as  the  tumult  increases;  Virgil,  calmly  daring  like  ^Eneas, 
appears  undisturbed  in  the  midst  of  the  action;  disposes  all 
about  him,  and  conquers  with  tranquillity.  And  when  we  look 
upon  their  macl  ines,  Homer  seems  like  his  own  Jupiter  in  his 
terrors,  shaking  Olympus,  scattering  the  lightnings,  and  firing 
the  heavens;  Virgil,  like  the  same  power  in  his  benevolence, 
counseling  with  the  gods,  laying  plans  for  empires,  and  regu- 
larly ordering  his  whole  creation. 


EXERCISE  LXXXIII. 
WAR  SONG. 

VK  WAXTIS  BOOR* 
I. 

Wheel  the  wild  dance 
While  lightnings  glance, 

And  thunders  rattle  loud, 
And  call  the  brave 
To  bloody  grave, 

To  sleep  without  a  shroud. 
Our  airy  feet. 
So  light  and  fleet. 

They  do  not  bend  the  rye 
That  sinks  its  head  when  whirlwinds  rave, 
And  swells  again  in  eddying  wave, 

As  each  wild  gust  blows  by. 
But  still  the  corn, 
At  dawn  of  morn, 

Our  fatal  steps  that  bore. 
At  eve  lies  waste, 
A  trampled  paste 

Of  blackening  mud  and  gore. 


*  See  Exercise  LXXV. 


B<^0  SANDERS'    UNION    SEBIEg 

II. 

Wheel  the  wild  dance 
While  lightnings  glance, 

And  thunders  rattle  loud, 
And  call  the  brave 
To  bloody  grave, 

To  sleep  without  a  shroud. 
Wheel  the  wild  dance  1 
Brave  sons  of  France, 

For  you  our  ring  makes  room  j 
Make  space  full  wide 
For  martial  pride. 

For  banner,  spear,  and  plume. 
Approach,  draw  near, 
Proud  cuirassier ! 

Room  for  the  men  of  steel  I 
Through  crest  and  plate 
The  broadsword's  weight 

Both  head  and  heart  shall  feel 

in. 

Wheel  the  wild  dance 
While  lightnings  glance, 

And  thunders  rattle  loud, 
And  call  the  brave 
To  bloody  grave. 

To  sleep  without  a  shroud. 
Burst,  ye  clouds,  in  tempest  show>n 
Redder  rain  shall  soon  be  ours — 

See  the  east  grows  wan — 
Yield  we  place  to  sterner  game, 
Ere  deadlier  bolts  and  direr  flame 
Shall  the  welkin^s  thunders  shame : 
Elemental  rage  is  tame 

To  the  wrath  of  man. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  301 

EXERCISE  LXXXIV. 
HUNTING  SONG. 

BIB  WALTER  SOOTT 
1. 

Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay, 

On  the  mountain  dawns  the  day. 

All  the  jolly  chase  is  here. 

With  hawk  and  horse  and  hunting  spear : 

Hounds  are  in  their  couples  yelling, 

Hawks  are  whistling,  horns  are  knelling, 

Merrily,  merrily,  mingle  they. 

Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay  I 

II. 

Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay. 

The  mist  has  left  the  mountain  gray ; 

Springlets  in  the  dawn  are  streaming, 

Diamonds  on  the  brake  are  gleaming, 

And  foresters  have  busy  been 

To  tarack  the  buck  in  thicket  green ; 

Now  we  come  to  chant  our  lay. 

Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay  I 

ni. 

Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay. 
To  the  greenwood  haste  away  j 
We  can  show  you  where  he  lies, 
Fleet  of  foot  and  tall  of  size ; 
We  can  show  the  marks  he  made. 
When  'gainst  the  oak  his  antlers  frayed  j 

You  shall  see  him  brought  to  bay, 

Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay  I 

IV. 

Louder,  louder  chant  the  lay, 
Waken  lords  and  ladies  gay  • 


SOV  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES. 

Tell  them  youth  and  mirth  and  glee, 
l\un  a  course  as  well  as  we. 
Time,  stern  huntsman  !  who  can  balk, 
*^tanch  as  hound,  and  fleet  as  hawk  ? 
Think  of  this,  and  rise  with  day, 
Gentle  lords  and  ladies  gay ! 


EXERCISE  LXXXV. 
SONG  OF  PEACE. 

I. 

No  longer  I  follow  a  sound ; 

No  longer  a  dream  I  pursue  j 
0  Happiness  !  not  to  be  found, 

Unattainable  treasure,  adieu  I 


I  have  sought  thee  in  splendor  and  dress, 
In  the  regions  of  pleasure  and  taste, 

I  have  sought  thee,  and  seemed  to  possess, 
But  have  proved  thee  a  vision  at  last. 

III. 

A   humble  ambition  and  hope 

The  voice  of  true  wisdom  inspires  j 

*Tis  sufficient,  if  Peace  be  the  scope 
And  the  summit  of  all  our  desires. 

IV. 

Peace  may  be  the  lot  of  the  mind 
That  seeks  it  in  meekness  and  love; 

But  rapture  and  bliss  are  confined 
To  the  glorified  spirits  above. 

*  See  sketch  in  Exercise  XVIII. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  303 


EXERCISE  LXXXVl. 

Daniel  Webster,  the  great  American  orator  and  statesman,  was  bom  in 
Salisbury,  New  Hampshire,  January  18th,  1782.  He  died  at  Marshfield, 
Massachusetts,  October  24th,  1852. 

Edwin  P,  Whipple,  author  of  the  following  fine,  discriminative  sketch,  is 
one  of  the  best  of  American  essayists.  He  is,  also,  distinguished  as  an  able 
and  interesting  lecturer :  few  excelling  him  either  in  the  power  to  sway  the 
feelings  of  an  audience  or  to  repay  with  instructive  discourse  an  attentive 
hearing.     He  was  born  in  Gloucester,  Massachusetts,  March  8th,  1819. 

SKETCH  OF  WEBSTER. 

E.  P.  WHIPPLE. 

1.  Earnestness,  solidity  of  judgment,  elevation  of  sentiment, 
broad  and  generous  views  of  national  policy,  and  a  massive 
strength  of  expression,  characterize  all  his  works.  We  feel,  in 
reading  them,  that  he  is  a  man  of  principles,  not  a  man  of 
exptiients;  that  he  never  adopts  opinions  without  subjecting 
them  to  stern  tests ;  and  that  he  recedes  from  them  only  at  the 
bidding  of  reason  and  experience.  He  never  seems  to  be  play- 
ing a  part,  but  always  acting  a  life. 

2.  The  ponderous  strength  of  his  powers  strikes  us  not 
more  forcibly  than  the  broad  individuality  of  the  man.  Were 
we  unacquainted  with  the  history  of  his  life,  we  could  almost 
infer  it  from  his  works.  Everything,  in  his  productions,  indi- 
cates the  character  of  a  person  who  has  struggled  fiercely  against 
obstacles,  who  has  developed  his  faculties  by  strenuous  labor, 
who  has  been  a  keen  and  active  observer  of  man  and  nature, 
and  who  has  been  disciplined  in  the  affairs  of  the  world.  There 
is  a  manly  simplicity  and  clearness  in  his  mind,  and  a  rugged 
energy  in  his  feelings,  which  preserve  him  from  all  the  affecta- 
tions of  literature  and  society. 

3.  He  is  great  by  original  constitution.  What  nature  origi- 
nally gave  to  him,  nature  has  to  some  extent  developed,  strength- 
ened, and  stamped  with  her  own  signature.  We  never  consider 
him  as  a  mere  debater,  a  mere  scholar,  or  a  mere  statesman; 
but  as  a  strong,  sturdy,  earnest  man.  The  school  and  the  col- 
lege could  not  fashion  him  into  any  foreign  shape,  because  they 


304  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES. 

worked  on  materials  too  hard  to  yield  easily  to  conventional 
molds. 

4.  The  impression  of  power  we  obtain  from  Webster's  pro- 
ductions,— a  power  not  merely  of  the  brain,  but  of  the  heart 
and  physical  temperament,  a  power  resulting  from  the  mental 
and  bodily  constitution  of  the  whole  man, — is  the  source  of 
his  hold  upon  our  respect  and  admiration.  We  feel  thaft,  under 
any  circumstan  jes,  in  any  condition  of  social  life,  and,  at  almost 
any  period  ol  time,  his  great  capacity  would  have  been  felt  and 
acknowledged. 

5.  A  large  majority  of  those  who  are  called  educated  men 
have  been  surrounded  by  all  the  implements  and  processes  of 
instruction ;  but  Webster  won  his  education  by  battling  against 
difficulties.  "A  dwarf  behind  a  steam-engine  can  remove  moun- 
tains ;  but  no  dwarf  can  hew  them  down  with  a  pick-ax,  and 
he  must  be  a  Titan  that  hurls  them  abroad  with  his  arms." 
Every  step  in  that  long  journey,  by  which  the  son  of  the  New 
Hampshire  farmer  has  obtained  the  highest  rank  in  social  and 
political  life,  has  been  one  of  strenuous  effort.  The  space  is 
crowded  with  incidents,  and  tells  of  obstacles  sturdily  met  and 
fairly  overthrown.  His  life  and  his  writings  seem  to  bear  testi- 
mony, that  he  can  perform  whatever  he  strenuously  attempts. 

6.  His  words  never  seem  disproportioned  to  his  strength. 
Indeed,  he  rather  gives  the  impression  that  he  has  powers  and 
impulses  in  reserve,  to  be  employed  when  the  occasion  for  their 
exercise  may  arise.  In  many  of  his  speeches,  not  especially 
pervaded  by  passion,  we  perceive  strength,  indeed,  but  strength 

'  half-leaning  on  his  own  right  arm."  He  has  never  yet  been 
placed  in  circumstances  where  the  full  might  of  his  nature,  in 
all  its  depth  of  understanding,  fiery  vehemence  of  sensibility, 
and  adamantine  strength  of  will,  have  been  brought  to  bear  on 
any  one  object,  and  strained  to  their  utmost. 

7.  We  have  referred  to  Webster's  productions  as  being  emi- 
nently national.  Every  one  familiar  with  them  will  bear  out 
the  statement.  In  fact,  the  most  hurried  glance  at  his  life 
would  prove,  that,  surrounded  as  he  has  been  from  his  youth 
by  American  influences,  it  could   hardly  be   otherwise.      His 


RHETORICAL    READER.  306 

earliest  recollections  must  extend  n'^nrly  to  the  feelings  and  in- 
cidents of  the  Revolution.  His  whole  life,  since  that  period, 
has  been  passed  in  the  country  of  his  birth,  and  his  fame  and 
honors  are  all  closely  connected  with  American  feelings  and 
institutions 

8.  His  works  all  refer  to  the  history,  the  policy,  the  laws, 
the  srovernment,  the  social  life,  and  the  destiny,  of  his  own 
land  They  bear  little  resemblance,  in  their  tone  and  spirit, 
to  productions  of  the  same  class  on  the  other  side  of  the  At- 
lantic. They  have  come  from  the  heart  and  understanding  of 
one  into  whose  very  nature  the  life  of  his  country  has  passed. 
Without  takim,  into  view  the  influences  to  which  his  youth 
and  early  manhood  were  subjected,  so  well  calculated  to  inspire 
a  love  for  the  very  soil  of  his  nativity,  and  to  mold  his  mind 
into  accordance  with  what  is  best  and  noblest  in  the  spirit  of 
our  institutions,  his  position  has  been  such  as  to  lead  him  to 
survey  objects  from  an  American  point  of  view. 

9.  His  patriotism  has  become  part  of  his  being.  Deny  him 
that,  and  you  deny  the  authorship  of  his  works.  It  has  prompted 
the  most  majestic  flights  of  his  eloquence.  It  has  given  inten- 
sity to  his  purposes,  and  lent  the  richest  glow  to  his  genius. 
It  has  made  his  eloquence  a  language  of  the  heart,  felt  and 
understood  over  every  portion  of  the  land  it  consecrates.  Oa 
Plymouth  Rock,  on  Bunker's  Hill,  at  Mount  Vernon,  by  the 
tombs  of  Hamilton,  and  Adams,  and  Jefferson,  and  Jay,  we  are 
reminded  of  Daniel  Webster 

10.  He  has  done  what  no  national  poet  has  yet  succeeded 
in  doing, — associated  his  own  great  genius  with  all  in  our 
country's  history  and  scenery  which  makes  us  rejoice  that  we 
are  Americans.  Over  all  those  events  in  our  history  which  are 
heroical,  he  has  cast  the  hues  of  strong  feeling  and  vivid  imj»- 
gination.  He  can  not  stand  on  one  spot  of  ground,  hallowed 
by  liberty  or  religion,  without  being  kindled  by  the  genius 
of  the  place;  he  can  not  mention  a  name,  consecrated  by  self- 
devotion  and  patriotism,  without  doing  it  eloquent  homage. 
Seeing  clearly,  and  feeling  deeply,  he  makes  us  see  and  feei 
with  him. 

0 


306  8ANDERS'     UNION     SERIES. 

11.  That  scene  of  the  landing  of  the  Pilgrims,  in  which  his 
imagination  conjures  up  the  forms  and  emotions  of  our  New 
England  ancestry,  will  ever  live  in  the  national  memory.  We 
see,  with  him,  the  ''  little  bark,  with  the  interesting  group  on 
its  deck,  make  its  slow  progress  to  the  shore."  We  feel,  with 
him,  *'  the  cold  which  benumbed,"  and  listen,  with  him,  "  to  the 
winds  which  pierced  them."  Carver,  and  Bradford,  and  Stan- 
di? h,  and  Brewster,  and  Allerton,  look  out  upon  us  from  the 
pictured  page,  in  all  the  dignity  with  which  virtue  and  freedom 
invest  their  martyrs ;  and  we  see,  too,  "  chilled  and  shivering 
childhood,  houseless  but  for  a  mother's  arms,  couchless  but  for 
a  mother's  breast,"  till  our  own  blood  almost  freezes. 

12.  The  readiness  with  which  the  orator  compels  our  sympa 
thies  to  follow  his  own,  i?  again  illustrated  in  the  orations  at 
Bunker  Hill,  and  in  the  discourse  in  honor  of  Adams  and  Jef- 
ferson. In  reading  them,  we  feel  a  new  pride  in  our  country, 
and  in  the  great  men  and  great  principles  it  has  cherished. 
The  mind  feels  an  unwonted  elevation,  and  the  heart  is  stirred 
with  emotions  of  more  than  common  depth,  by  their  majesty 
and  power. 

13.  Some  passages  are  so  graphic  and  true  that  they  seem 
gifted  with  a  voice,  and  to  speak  to  us  from  the  page  they  illu- 
mine. The  intensity  of  feeling  with  which  they  are  pervaded, 
rises,  at  times,  from  confident  hope  to  prophecy,  and  lifts  the 
soul  as  with  wings.  In  that  splendid  close  to  a  remarkable 
passage  in  the  oration  on  Adams  and  Jefferson,  what  American 
does  not  feel  assured,  with  the  orator,  that  their  fame  will  be 
immortal  ? 

14.  "Although  no  sculptured  marble  should  rise  to  their 
memory,  nor  engraved  stout  bear  record  to  their  deeds,  yet 
will  their  remembrance  be  as  lasting  as  the  land  they  honored. 
Marble  columns  may,  indeed,  molder  into  dust,  time  may  erase 
all  impress  from  the  crumbling  stone,  but  their  fame  remains ; 
for  with  American  Liberty  it  rose,  and  with  American 
Liberty  only  can  it  perish.  It  was  the  last  swelling  peal  of 
yonder  choir,  'Their  bodies  are  buried  in  peace,  but  their 
MA  ME  livetb   EVERMORE.'     I  catch  the  solcmu  song,  I  echo 


RHETORICAL    READER. 


307 


that  lofty  strain   of  funeral  triumph,   'Their  name  liveth 
evermore/ " 

15.  Throughout  the  speeches  of  Mr,  Webster  wc  perceive 
this  national  spirit.  He  has  meditated  so  deeply  on  the  history, 
the  formation,  and  the  tendencies  of  our  institutions ;  he  is  so 
well  acquainted  with  the  conduct  and  opinions  of  every  states- 
mfin  who  has  affected  the  policy  of  the  government ;  and  has 
become  so  thoroughly  imbued  with  the  national  character,  that 
his  sympathies  naturally  flow  in  national  channels,  and  have 
their  end  and  object  in  the  land  of  his  birth  and  culture.  His 
motto  is, — "  Our  country,  our  whole  country,  and  nothing  but 
our  country.^'  It  is  the  alpha  and  omega  of  his  political  alpha- 
bet. It  is  felt  in  his  blood,  and  "  felt  along  his  heart."  It  is 
twined  with  all  his  early  recollections,  with  the  acts  of  his  life, 
with  his  hopes,  his  ambition,  and  his  fame. 


EXERCISE  LXXXVII. 
IMPORTANCE  OF  THE  UNION. 

WEB8TEB. 

1.  I  profess,  sir,  in  my  career  hitherto  to  have  kept  steadily 
in  view  the  prosperity  and  honor  of  the  whole  country,  and  the 
preservation  of  our  federal  union.  It  is  to  that  union  we  owe 
our  safety  at  home,  and  our  consideration  and  dignity  abroad. 
It  is  to  that  union  that  we  are  chiefly  indebted  for  whatever 
makes  us  most  proud  of  our  country.  That  union  we  reached 
only  by  the  discipline  of  our  virtues,  in  the  severe  school  of 
adversity.  It  had  its  origin  in  the  necessities  of  disordered 
finance,  prostrate  commerce,  and  ruined  credit. 

2.  Under  its  benign  influences,  these  great  interests  imme- 
diately awoke,  as  from  the  dead,  and  sprang  forth  with  newness 
of  life.  Every  year  of  its  duration  has  teemed  with  fresh  proofs 
of  its  utility  and  its  blessings  j  and,  although  our  territory  has 
stretched  out  wider  and  wider,  and  our  population  spread  farthei 
and  farther,  they  have  not  outrun  its  protection  or  its  benefits 


308  SANDERS'     UNION     SERIES. 

It  has  been  to  us  all  a  copious  fountain  of  national,  social,  and 
personal  happiness. 

3.  I  have  not  allowed  myself,  sir,  to  look  beyond  the  "anion, 
to  see  what  might  lie  hidden  in  the  dark  recess  behind.  I  have 
not  coolly  weighed  the  chances  of  preserving  liberty,  when  the 
bonds  that  unite  us  together  shall  be  broken  asunder.  I  have 
not  accustomed  myself  to  hang  over  the  precipice  of  disunion 
to  see  whether,  with  my  short  sight,  I  can  fathom  the  depth  of 
the  abyss  below ;  nor  could  I  regard  him  as  a  safe  counselor  in 
the  affairs  of  this  government,  whose  thoughts  should  be  mainly 
bent  on  considering,  not  how  the  union  should  be  best  preserved, 
but  how  tolerable  might  be  the  condition  of  the  people,  when  it 
shall  be  broken  up  and  destroyed. 

4.  While  the  union  lasts,  we  have  high,  exciting,  gratifying 
prospects  spread  out  before  us,  for  us  and  our  children.  Beyond 
that  I  seek  not  to  penetrate  the  vail.  God  grant  that,  in  my 
day,  at  least,  that  curtain  may  not  rise.  God  grant  that  on  my 
vision  never  may  be  opened  what  lies  behind.  When  my  eyes 
shall  be  turned  to  behold,  for  the  last  time,  the  sun  in  heaven, 
may  I  not  see  him  shining  on  the  broken  and  dishonored  frag- 
ments of  a  once  glorious  union ;  on  states  dissevered,  discordant, 
belligerent ;  on  a  land  rent  with  civil  feuds,  or  drenched,  it  may 
be,  in  fraternal  blood  I 

5.  Let  their  last  feeble  and  lingering  glance  rather  behold 
the  gorgeous  ensign  of  the  republic,  now  known  and  honored 
throughout  the  earth,  still  full  high  advanced,  its  arms  and  tro- 
phies streaming  in  their  original  luster,  not  a  stripe  erased  or 
polluted,  nor  a  single  star  obscured — bearing  for  its  motto  no 
such  miserable  interrogatory  as — What  is  all  this  worth  ?  Nor 
those  other  words  of  delusion  and  folly — liberty  first,  and  union 
afterward — but  everywhere,  spread  all  over  in  characters  of 
living  light,  blazing  on  all  its  ample  folds  as  they  float  Dver  the 
sea  and  over  the  land,  and  in  every  wind  under  the  whole  heavens, 
that  other  sentiment  dear  to  every  true  American  heart — liberty 
and  union,  NOW   and  forever,  one  and  inseparable  ! 


RHETORICAL     READER.  309 


EXERCISE  LXXXVIII. 

Leo.  H.  Geindon,  who  is  Lecturer  on  Botany  at  the  Royal  School  of  Medicine, 
Manchester,  is  the  author  of  several  works  of  considerable  literary  and  scientific  worth. 
Among  these  is  one  entitled  "•Life:  its  Nature,  Varieties,  and  Phenomena,"  which — for 
sober,  thoughtful  speculation,  occasional  vigor  and  beauty  of  diction,  for  variety  and 
felicity  of  illustration,  for  good  sense  and  timely  truth,  for  rare,  if  not  altogether  origi- 
nal views  of  life,  in  all  its  various  manifestations — is  seldom  surpassed  in  these  days  of 
rapid  book-making.    The  following  is  a  good  example  of  his  manner. 

LIFE   INTENDED  TO  BE   HAPPY. 

GBINDON. 

1.  How  inestimable  a  prerogative  is  human  life  !  And  what 
ingratitude  to  misuse  it.  Life  may  be  misu&ed  without  being 
abused.  It  is  misused,  if  it  be  not  so  employed  as  to  be  enjoyed, 
that  iS)  by  making  the  most  of  its  opportunities;  in  other  words, 
devoting  it  to  honorable  deeds,  affectional  as  well  as  intellectual. 
The  more  strenuously  we  enact  such  deeds,  the  more  genuine, 
because  practical,  is  our  acknowledgment  of  the  Divine  good- 
ness in  bestowing  life,  and  the  keener  becomes  our  aptitude  for 
sucking  the  honey  of  existence. 

2.  Work  or  activity,  of  whatever  kind  it  be,  uprightly  and 
earnestly  pursued,  is  a  living  hymn  of  praise.  It  is  truest  obe- 
dience, also,  for  it  is  God's  great  law  that  whatever  powers  and 
aptitudes  he  has  given  us,  shall  be  honorably  and  zealously  em- 
ployed. The  energy  of  life,  when  fairly  brought  out,  is  immense; 
immense  beyond  what  any  one  who  has  not  tried  it  can  imagine. 
Too  often  neglected,  and  allowed  to  lapse  into  weakness;  trained 
and  exercised,  it  will  quicken  into  grandeur.  It  is  better  to 
wear  out  than  to  rust  out,  says  a  homely  proverb,  with  more 
meaning  than  people  commonly  suppose.  Rust  consumes  faster 
than  use.  To  "  wear  out"  implies  life  and  its  pleasures ;  to  i 
*'  rust,"  the  stagnation  of  death. 

3.  Life,  rightly  realized,  is  embosomed  in  light  and  beauty. 
The  world  is  not  necessarily  a  "  vale  of  tears."  God  never 
intended  it  to  be  so  to  any  one.  All  his  arrangements  are  with 
an  opposite  design,  and  to  be  fulfilled,  only  need  man's  response 
and  cooperation.  True,  in  his  all-wise  providence,  he  sends 
troubles  upon   men,  and  grievous  ones ;  but  they  are  never  so 


810.  Sanders'   union    series. 

great  as  those  they  bring  upon  themselves,  and  willingly  suffer. 
What  shall  be  our  experience  of  life,  rests  mainly  with  our- 
selves. The  world  may  render  us  unfortunate,  but  it  cannot 
make  us  miserable ;  if  we  are  so,  the  fault  lies  in  our  own 
bosoms.  It  is  not  only  the  great  who  order  their  own  circum- 
stances. 

4.  On  the  wide,  wild  sea  of  human  life,  as  on  that  where  go 
the  ships,  the  winds  and  the  waves  are  always  on  the  side  of  the 
clever  sailor.  Though  one  breast  prove  unfaithful,  there  are 
plenty  of  others  that  do  not.  It  is  still  our  own  to  rejoice  in  the 
belief  of  the  good  and  beautiful,  and  to  weave  out  of  this  belief  a 
perennial  happiness.  If  we  take  precautions  to  form  and  pre- 
serve a  sound  estimate  of  what  is  past,  the  joyful  experience  and 
the  sori'owful  alike,  we  rarely  have  cause  for  regret,  and  always 
abundance  for  hope  and  thankfulness  ;  for  that  which  spoils  life, 
is  seldom  so  much  the  occurrence  of  certain  events,  as  the  per- 
verted  recollection  of  them,  and  of  this,  happy  events  no  less  than 
unhappy  ones  may  be  the  subject. 

5.  Even  if  a  man  make  no  effort  of  himself — if  he  be  so  neg- 
jectful  as  not  to  realize  the  brilliant  opportunities  permitted  to 
him,  so  fully  as  he  may,  still  is  life  crowded  with  pleasures. 
When  there  is  shadow,  it  is  because  there  is  sunshine  not  far  off. 
Its  weeds  and  thorns  are  known  by  contrast  with  surrounding 
flowers,  and,  though  upon  many  even  of  the  latter  there  may  be 
rain-drops,  those  that  are  without  are  yet  more  abounding. 
There  are  more  smiles  in  the  world  than  there  are  tears ;  there 
is  more  love  than  hate,  more  constancy  than  forsaking :  those 
that  murmur  the  contrary,  choose  not  for  thy  companions. 

6.  When  the  mist  rolls  away  from  the  mountains,  and  the 
landscape  stands  suddenly  revealed,  we  find  that  Nature  always 
has  beauty  for  her  end.  However  long  and  dreary  may  be  the 
•winter,  we  are  always  indemnified  by  the  spring — not  merely  by 
the  enjoyment  of  it  when  it  comes,  but  by  the  anticipation.  So 
with  the  mists  and  wintry  days  of  life ;  while  they  last,  they  are 
painful,  but  their  clearing  away  is  glorious,  and  we  find  that  they 
are  only  veils  and  forerunners  of  something  bright.  Nature 
never  forgets  her  sestivalia,*  nor  Divine  love  its  compensations. 


RHETORICAL     READER.  311 

The  common  course  of  things,  says  Paley,  is  uniformly  in  favor 
of  happiness.  Happiness  is  the  rule,  misery  the  exception. 
Else  would  our  attention  be  called  to  examples  of  wealth  and 
comfort,  instead  ol'  disease  and  want. 

v.  Giving  full,  fair  play  to  the  intellect  and  affections,  we  not 
only  discover  what  it  is  to  live,  and  how  easy  to  live  happily; 
but  the  period  of  our  existence  upon  earth  ceases  to  be  short, 
and  becomes  immensely  long.  It  is  only  the  life  of  the  body 
which  is  short,  or  need  be  so.  Real,  human  life,  is  immeasura- 
ble, if  we  will  have  it  so.  Each  day,  remarks  Goethe  in  his 
autobiography,  is  a  vessel  into  which  a  great  deal  may  be 
poured,  if  we  will  actually  fill  it  up  ;  that  is,  with  thoughts  and 
feelings,  and  their  expression  into  deeds,  as  elevated  and  amiable 
as  we  can  reach  to. 

8.  It  needs  little  reflection  to  perceive  that  life  truly  consists 
only  in  such  exercises.  "The  mere  lapse  of  years  is  not  life. 
To  eat,  and  drink,  and  sleep,  to  be  exposed  to  the  darkness  and 
the  light,  to  pace  round  the  mill  of  habit,  and  turn  the  wheel  of 
wealth ;  to  make  reason  our  book-keeper,  and  convert  thought 
into  an  implement  of  trade ;  this  is  not  life.  In  all  this  but  a 
poor  fraction  of  the  consciousness  of  humanity  is  awakened,  and 
the  sanctities  still  slumbor  which  make  it  most  worth  while  to 
be.  Knowledge,  truth,  love,  beauty,  goodness,  faith,  alone  give 
vitality  to  the  mechanism  of  existence." 

9.  Grandly  expressed  in  "  Festus  :" — 

Life's  more  than  breath,  and  the  quick  round  of  blood ; 

'Tis  a  great  spirit  and  a  busy  heart. 

We  live  in  deeds,  not  years ;  in  thoughts,  not  breaths ; 

In  feelings,  not  in  figures  on  a  dial. 

We  should  count  time  by  heart-throbs.     He  most  lives. 

Who  thinks  most,  feels  the  noblest,  acts  the  best. 

10.  IF  the  expanding  intellect  and  affections  be  affixed,  under 
kindly  guidance,  to  what  is  truthful  and  good,  youth  spreads  its 

*  uEsli  valla  {pas  ti  va  li  a),  summer  seasons. 


3i2  SANDERS*     UNION     SERIES. 

wings,  and  goes  on  growing  in  everlasting  life;  if  they  be  affixed, 
under  vicious  or  repressing  influences,  to  what  is  base  or  ignoble, 
the  beautiful  progression  is  arrested,  and  the  spirit  relapses  into 
its  original  vacant  old  age. 


EXERCISE  LXXXIX. 

Joseph  Rodman  Drake  was  born  in  New  York  city,  August  7th,  1795, 
uni  died  September  21st,  1820.  He  wrote  well  in  verse  from  early  boyhtrod. 
His  most  finished  eflFort  is  a  poem  entitled  *•  The  Culprit  Fay,"  which  justly 
ranks  him  among  the  most  gifted  of  poets. 

THE  AMERICAN  FLAG. 


When  Freedom,  from  her  mountain  hight, 

Unfurled  her  standard  to  the  air, 
She  tore  the  azure  robe  of  night, 

And  set  the  stars  of  glory  there. 
She  mingled  with  its  gorgeous  dyes 
The  milky  baldric  of  the  skies, 
And  striped  its  pure,  celestial  white. 
With  streakings  of  the  morning  light  j 
Then,  from  his  mansion  in  the  sun. 
She  called  her  eagle  bearer  down, 
And  gave  into  his  mighty  hand 
The  eymbol  of  her  chosen  land. 

IT. 

Majestic  monarch  of  the  cloua, 

Who  rear'st  aloft  thy  regal  form, 
To  hear  the  tempest  trumpings  loud 
And  see  the  lightning  lances  driven. 

When  strive  the  warriors  of  the  storm, 
And  rolls  the  thunder-drum  of  heaven, 
Child  of  the  sun !  to  thee  'tis  given 
To  guard  the  banner  of  the  free, 


RHETORICAL    READER.  818 

To  hover  in  the  sulphur  smoke, 
To  ward  away  the  battle-stroke, 
And  bid  its  blendings  shine  afar, 
Like  rainbows  on  the  cloud  of  war, 
The  harbingers  of  victory ! 

III. 

Flag  of  the  brave  !  thy  folds  shall  fly, 

The  sign  of  hope  and  triumph  high, 
"When  speaks  the  signal  trumpet  tone, 

And  the  long  line  comes  gleaming  on. 
Ere  yet  the  life-blood,  warm  and  wet, 

Has  dimmed  the  glistening  bayonet. 
Each  soldier  eye  shall  brightly  turn 

To  where  thy  sky-born  glories  burn ; 
And,  as  his  springing  steps  advance, 
Catch  war  and  vengeance  from  the  glance. 
And  when  the  cannon-mouthings  loud 

Heave  in  wild  wreaths  the  battle-shroud, 
And  gory  sabers  rise  and  fall 
Like  shoots  of  flame  on  midnight's  pall; 

Then  shall  thy  meteor  glances  glow. 
And  cowering  foes  shall  sink  beneath 

Each  gallant  arm  that  strikes  below 
That  lovely  messenger  of  death. 

Flag  of  the  seas  !  on  ocean  wave 

Thy  stars  shall  glitter  o'er  the  brave } 
When  death,  careering  on  the  gale, 

Sweeps  darkly  round  the  bellied  sail, 
And  frighted  waves  rush  wildly  back 

Before  the  broadside's  reeling  rack, 
Each  dying  wanderer  of  the  sea 

Shall  look  at  once  to  heaven  and  thee. 
And  smile  to  see  thy  splendors  fly 
In  triumph  o'er  his  closing  eye 
6R 


314  SANDERS'     UNION    SERIES. 


Flag  of  the  free  heart's  hope  and  home  I 

By  angel  hands  to  valor  given ; 
Thy  stars  have  lit  the  welkin  dome, 

And  all  thy  hues  were  born  in  heaven. 
Forever  float  that  standard  sheet ! 

Where  breathes  the  foe  but  falls  before  U8, 
With  Freedom's  soil  beneath  our  feet, 

And  Freedom's  banner  streaming  o'er  us  Y 


EXERCISE  XC. 
WORDS  FROM  HOLY  WRIT. 


WHENCE   COMETH   WISDOM? 

JOB  xxvin. 

But  where  shall  wisdom  be  found  ?  and  where  is  the  place 

of  understanding  ?    Man  knoweth  not  the  price  thereof;  neither 

is  it  found  in  the  laud  of  the  living.     The  depth  saith,  It  is  not 

in  me :  and  the  sea  saith,  It  is  not  with  me.    It  can  not  be  gotten 

for  gold,  neither  shall  silver  be  weighed  for  the  price  thereof. 

It  cannot  be  valued  with  the  gold  of  Ophir,  with  the  precious 

onyx,  or  the  sapphire.     The  gold  and  the  crystal  cannot  equal 

it:  and  the  exchange  of  it  shall  not  be  for  jewels  of  fine  gold. 

No  mention  shall  be  made  of  coral,  or  of  pearls :  for  the  price 

of  wisdom  is  above  rubies.     The  topaz  of  Ethiopia  shall  not 

equal  it,  neither  shall  it  be  valued  with  pure  gold.     Whence 

then  Cometh  wisdom?  and  where  is  the  place  of  understanding? 

Behold,  the  fear  of  the  Lord,  that  is  wisdom;  and  to  depart 

from  evil  is  understanding. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  315 

II 

CONFIDENCE   IN    GOD. 


>8ALH   XXni. 


The  Lord  is  ray  shepherd;  I  shall  not  want.  He  maketh  me 
to  lie  down  in  green  pastures :  he  leadeth  me  beside  the  stiU 
water"  He  rostoreth  my  soul ;  he  leadeth  me  in  the  paths  of 
righteousness  for  his  name's  sake.  Yea,  though  I  walk  through 
tjhe  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death,  I  will  fear  no  evil :  for  thou 
art  with  me;  thy  rod  and  thy  staff  they  comfort  me.  Thou 
preparest  a  table  before  me  in  the  presence  of  mine  enemies; 
thou  anointest  my  head  with  oil;  my  cup  runneth  over.  Surely 
goodness  and  mercy  shall  follow  me  all  the  days  of  my  life :  and 
I  will  dwell  in  the  house  of  the  Lord  forever. 

III. 

MAXIMS   AND    OBSERVATIONS. 

PROVERBS  XXVn. 

Boast  not  thyself  of  to-morrow ;  for  thou  knowest  not  what  a 
day  may  bring  forth.  Let  another  man  praise  thee,  and  not 
thine  own  mouth ;  a  stranger,  and  not  thine  own  lips.  A  stone 
is  heavy,  and  the  sand  weighty ;  but  a  fool's  wrath  is  heavier 
than  them  both.  Wrath  is  cruel,  and  anger  is  outrageous ;  but 
who  is  able  to  stand  before  envy  ?  Open  rebuke  is  better  than 
secret  love.  Faithful  are  the  wounds  of  a  friend ;  but  the  kisses 
of  an  enemy  are  deceitful. 

IV. 
CALL   TO   FAITH    AND   REPENTANCE. 

ISAIAH  LY. 

Ho,  every  one  that  thirsteth,  come  ye  to  the  waters,  and  he 
that  hath  no  money;  come  ye,  buy,  and  eat;  yea,  come,  buy 
wine  and  milk  without  money  and  without  price.  Wherefore 
do  ye  spend  money  for  that  which  is  not  bread  ?  and  your  labor 
for  that  which  satisfieth  not?  hearken  diligently  unto  me,  and 
eat  ye  that  which  is  good,  and  let  your  soul  delight  itself  in 
fatness.  Incline  your  ear,  and  come  unto  me :  hear  and  your 
soul  shall  live ;  and  I  will  make  an  everlasting  covenant  with 
you,  even  the  sure  mercies  of  David. 


B16  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES. 


DEEDS,    NOT   WORDS. 

JZBSHIAB  Wa. 

Trust  ye  not  in  lying  words,  saying,  The  temple  of  the  Lord, 
The  temple  of  the  Lord,  The  temple  of  the  Lord,  are  these.  For 
if  ye  thoroughly  amend  your  ways  and  your  doings;  if  ye 
thoroughly  execute  judgment  between  a  man  and  his  neighbor; 
if  ye  oppress  not  the  stranger,  the  fatherless,  and  the  widow, 
and  shed  not  innocent  blood  in  this  place,  neither  walk  after 
other  gods  to  your  hurt ;  then  will  I  cause  you  to  dwell  in  this 
place,  in  the  land  that  I  gave  to  your  fathers,  forever  and  ever. 

VI. 

SEEK    FIRST   THE    KINGDOM    OP   GOD. 

MATTHBW  TI. 

Behold  the  fowls  of  the  air:  for  they  sow  not,  neither  do  they 
reap,  nor  gather  into  barns ;  yet  your  heavenly  Father  feedeth 
them.  Are  ye  not  much  better  thau  they?  And  why  take  ye 
thought  for  raiment?  Consider  the  -lilies  of  the  field  how  they 
grow ;  they  toil  not,  neither  do  they  spin ;  and  yet  I  say  unto 
you.  That  even  Solomon  in  all  his  glory  was  not  arrayed  like 
one  of  these.  Wherefore,  if  God  so  clothe  the  grass  of  the 
field,  which  to-day  is,  and  to-morrow  is  cast  into  the  oven,  shall 
he  not  much  more  clothe  you,  0  ye  of  little  faith  ?  Therefore 
take  no  thought,  saying.  What  shall  we  eat?  or.  What  shall  we 
drink  ?  or,  Wherewithal  shall  we  be  clothed  ?  but  seek  ye  first 
the  kingdom  of  God,  and  His  righteousness,  and  all  these  things 
shall  be  added  unto  you. 

VII. 
DUTIES   ENJOINED. 

ROMANS  Xn. 

Let  love  be  without  dissimulation.  Abhor  that  which  is  evil, 
eleave  to  that  which  is  good.  Be  kindly  afi"ectioned  one  to  an- 
other with  brotherly  love;  in  honor  preferring  one  another;  not 
slothful  in  business ;  fervent  in  spirit ;  serving  the  Lord  ;  re* 
joicing  in  hope ;  patient  in  tribulation ;  continuing  instant  in 
prayer ;  distributing  to  the  necessity  of  saints ;   given  to  hospi- 


RtlETOKlCAL    READER.  317 

tality.  Bless  them  which  persecute  you;  bless,  aud  curse  not 
Rejoice  with  them  that  do  rejoice,  and  weep  with  them  that 
weep.  Be  of  the  same  mind  one  toward  another.  Mind  not 
high  things,  but  condescend  to  men  of  low  estate.  Be  not  wise 
in  your  own  conceits.  Recompense  to  no  man  evil  for  evil. 
Provide  things  honest  in  the  sight  of  all  men.  If  it  be  possible, 
as  much  as  lieth  in  you,  live  peaceably  with  all  men. 

viri. 

GENERAL   EXHORTATION. 

PHILIP.  IV. 

Liet  your  moderation  be  known  unto  all  men.  The  Lord  is 
at  hand.  Be  careful  for  nothing ;  but  in  everything  by  prayer 
and  supplication  with  thanksgiving  let  your  requests  be  made 
known  unto  God.  And  the  peace  of  God,  which  passeth  all 
understanding,  shall  keep  your  hearts  and  minds  through  Christ 
Jesus.  Finally,  brethren,  whatsoever  things  are  true,  whatso- 
ever thmgs  are  honest,  whatsoever  things  are  just,  whatsoever 
things  are  pure,  whatsoever  things  are  lovely,  whatsoever  things 
are  of  good  report ;  if  there  be  any  virtue,  aud  if  there  be  any 
praise,  think  on  these  things. 

IX. 

THE   TONGUE   AN    UNRULY    MEMBER. 

JAMES  m. 

For  every  kind  of  beasts,  and  of  birds,  and  of  serpents,  and 
of  things  in  the  sea,  is  tamed,  and  hath  been  tamed,  of  man- 
kind :  but  the  tongue  can  no  man  tame ;  it  is  an  unruly  evil, 
full  of  deadly  poison.  Therewith  bless  we  God,  even  the  Father; 
and  therewith  curse  we  men,  which  are  made  after  the  simili- 
tude of  God.  Out  of  the  same  mouth  proceedeth  blessing  and 
cursing.  My  brethren,  these  things  ought  not  so  to  be.  Doth 
a  fountain  hend  forth  at  the  same  place  sweet  water  and  bitter? 
Can  the  fig-tree,  my  brethren,  bear  olive-berries?  either  a  vine, 
figs  ?  so  can  no  fountain  both  yield  salt  water  and  fresh.  Who 
is  a  wise  man  and  endued  with  knowledge  among  you  ?  let  him 
show  out  of  H  good  conversation  his  works  with  meekness  of 
wisdom. 


JJ18  SANDERS'     UNION    SERIES. 


EXERCISE  XCI. 

Ma  DAM  R  JcNOT  (Juuo),  DucHESS  OP  Abrantes,  wife  of  the  celebrated 
Junot,  one  of  Napoleon's  generals,  was  born  at  Montpelier,  in  the  year  1784, 
and  died  near  Paris  in  1838.  Her  father  was  born  in  Corsica,  and  had  been 
an  early  friend  of  the  Bonaparte  family.  Her  own  family  connections  and 
Junot's  interest  with  Bonaparte  brought  her  into  the  highest  Parisian 
circles,  for  which  she  was  well  fitted  by  her  superior  manners  and  education, 
Af  er  the  fall  of  Napoleon,  and  the  death  of  her  husband,  she  was  obliged  to 
fc'bw  literature  as  a  means  of  living.  She  died  very  poor.  Her  chief  work 
L  entitled  "  Mcmoirn  of  the  Duchess  of  Abrantes,"  from  which  comes  the 
following  interesting  extract. 

CORONATION  OF  NAPOLEON. 

MADAME  JCNOT. 

1.  Before  day-break,  on  the  ^d  of  December,  1804,  all  Paris 
was  alive  and  in  motion;  indeed,  hundreds  of  persons  had 
remained  up  the  whole  of  the  night.  Many  ladies  had  the 
courage  to  get  their  hair  dressed  at  two  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
and  then  sat  quietly  in  their  chairs,  until  the  time  arrived  for 
arranging  the  other  parts  of  their  toilette.  We  were  all  very 
much  hurried,  for  it  was  necessary  to  be  at  our  posts  before  the 
procession  moved  from  the  Tuileries,*  for  which  nine  o'clock  was 
the  appointed  hour. 

2.  Who  that  saw  Notre-Dame  on  that  memorable  day  can 
ever  forget  it  ?  I  have  witnessed  in  that  venerable  pile  the 
celebration  of  sumptuous  and  solemn  festivals,  but  never  did  I 
see  anything  at  all  approximating  to  the  splendor  exhibited  at 
Napoleon's  coronation.  The  vaulted  roof  re-echoed  the  sacred 
chanting  of  the  priests,  who  invoked  the  blessing  of  the  Almighty 
on  the  ceremony  about  to  be  celebrated,  while  they  awaited  the 
arrival  of  the  Vicar  of  Christ,  whose  throne  was  prepared  jiear 
the  altar. 

3.  Along  the  ancient  walls  of  tapestry  were  ranged,  according 
to  their  ranks,  the  diflFerent  bodies  of  the  state,  the  deputies  frcra 
every  city,  in  short,  the  Representatives  of  all  France,  assembled 
to  implore  the  benediction  of  Heaven  on  the  sovereign  of  the 

*  Tuiler'es  ( TweeL^re),  residence  of  the  French  monarchs,  on  the 
Seine. 


RHETORICAL     READER.  319 

people's  choice.  The  waving  plumes  which  adorned  tl  e  hats 
of  the  senators,  counselors  of  state,  and  tribunes — the  splendid 
unitbrnis  of  the  military — the  clergy,  in  all  their  ecclesiastical 
pomp — and  the  multitude  of  young  and  beautiful  women,  glit- 
tering in  jewels,  and  arrayed  in  that  style  of  grace  and  elegance 
which  is  to  be  seen  only  in  Paris — altogether  presented  a  picture 
which  has,  perhaps,  rarely  been  equaled,  and  certainly  never 
excelled. 

4.  The  Pope  arrived  first;  and,  at  the  moment  of  his  entering 
the  cathedral,  the  anthem,  Tu  es  Petrus*  was  commenced.  His 
Holiness  advanced  from  the  door  with  an  air  at  once  majestic 
and  humble.  Ere  long,  the  firing  of  cannon  announced  the 
departure  of  the  procession  from  the  palace.  From  an  early  hour 
in  the  morning,  the  weather  had  been  exceedingly  unfavorable. 
It  was  cold  and  rainy,  and  appearances  seemed  to  indicate  that 
the  procession  would  be  anything  but  agreeable  to  those  who 
joined  in  it.  But,  as  if  by  the  especial  favor  of  Providence,  of 
which  so  many  instances  are  observable  in  the  career  of  Napo- 
leon, the  clouds  suddenly  dispersed,  the  sky  brightened  up,  and 
the  multitudes  who  lined  the  streets  from  the  Tuileries  to  the 
cathedral,  enjoyed  the  sight  of  the  piocession  without  being,  as 
they  anticipated,  drenched  by  a  December  rain.  Napoleon,  as 
he  passed  along,  was  greeted  by  heartfelt  expressions  of  enthu- 
siastic love  and  attachment. 

5.  On  his  arrival  at  Notre-Dame,  Napoleon  ascended  the 
throne,  which  was  erected  in  front  of  the  grand  altar.  Josephine 
took  her  place  beside  him,  surrounded  by  the  assembled  sove- 
reigns of  Europe.  Napoleon  appeared  singularly  calm.  I 
watched  him  narrowly,  with  the  view  of  discovering  whether 
his  hear.,  beat  more  highly  beneath  the  imperial  trappings  than 
under  the  uniform  of  the  Guards ;  but  I  could  observe  no  differ- 
ence, and  yet  I  was  at  the  distance  of  only  ten  paces  from  him. 
The  length  of  the  ceremony,  however,  seemed  to  weary  him  ; 
and  I  saw  him  several  times  check  a  yawn.  Nevertheless,  he 
did  everything  he  was  required  to  do,  and  did  it  with  propriety 

*  Thou  art  Peter. 


320  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES. 

6.  When  the  Pope  anoiDted  him  with  the  triple  unctict,  on 
the  head  and  both  hands,  I  fancied,  from  the  direction  of  his 
eyes,  that  he  was  thinkiug  of  wiping  ofiF  the  oil,  rather  than  of 
anything  else ;  and  I  was  so  perfectly  acquainted  with  the  work- 
ings of  his  countenance,  that  I  have  no  hesitation  in  saying  that 
was  really  the  thought  that  crossed  his  mind  at  the  moment. 
During  the  ceremony  of  anointing,  the  holy  father  delivered 
that  impressive  prayer  which  concludes  with  these  words : — 
Diffuse^  oh  Lord.,  hy  my  hands.,  the  treasures  of  your  grace  aiid 
benediction  on  your  servant..  Napoleon.,  whom,  in  spite  of  our 
person 2I  unworthiness,  we  this  day  anoint  Emperor,  in  your 
name. 

7.  Napoleon  listened  to  this  prayer  with  an  air  of  pious  devo- 
tion. But,  just  as  the  Pope  was  about  to  take  the  crown,  called 
the  crown  of  Charlemagne,  from  the  altar,  Napoleon  seized  it 
and  placed  it  on  his  own  head  !  At  that  moment,  he  was  really 
handsome,  and  his  countenance  was  lighted  up  with  an  expres- 
sion of  which  no  words  can  convey  an  idea.  He  had  removed 
the  wreath  of  laurel  which  he  wore  on  entering  the  church,  and 
which  encircles  his  brow  in  the  fine  picture  of  Gerard.  The 
crown  was,  perhaps,  in  itself,  less  becoming  to  him ;  but  the 
expression  excited  by  the  act  of  putting  it  on,  rendered  him 
perfectly  handsome. 

8.  When  the  moment  arrived  for  Josephine  to  take  an  active 
part  in  the  grand  drama,  she  descended  from  the  throne,  and 
advanced  towards  the  altar,  where  the  Emperor  awaited  hftr, 
followed  by  her  retinue  of  court  ladies,  and  having  her  train 
borne  by  the  princesses,  Caroline,  Julie,  Eliza,  and  Louise.  One 
of  the  chief  beauties  of  the  Empress  Josephine,  was  not  merely 
her  fine  figure,  but  the  elegant  turn  of  her  neck,  and  the  way 
in  which  she  carried  her  head ;  indeed,  her  deportment,  alto- 
gether, was  conspicuous  for  dignity  and  grace.  I  have  had  the 
honor  of  being  presented  to  many  rea/  princesses,  but  I  never 
saw  one,  who,  to  my  eyes,  presented  so  perfect  a  personification 
of  elegance  and  majesty. 

9.  In  Napoleon's  countenance  I  could  read  the  conviction  of 
all  I  have  just  said.     He  looked  with  an  air  of  complacency  at 


RHETORICAL    READER.  821 

fche  Empress,  as  she  advanced  towards  him;  and,  when  she 
knelt  down — when  the  tears,  which  she  could  not  repress,  fell 
upon  her  clasped  hands,  as  they  were  raised  to  heaven,  or  rather 
to  Napoleon — both  then  appeared  to  enjoy  one  of  those  fleeting 
moments  of  pure  felicity,  which  are  unique  in  a  lifetime,  and 
serve  to  fill  up  a  vacuum  of  years.  The  Emperor  performed, 
with  peculiar  grace,  every  action  required  of  him  during  the 
ceremony;  but  his  manner  of  crowning  Josephine  was  most 
remarkable. 

10.  After  receiv:_.^  the  small  crown  surmounted  by  the  crf«s, 
he  had  first  to  place  it  on  his  own  head,  and  then  to  transfer  it 
to  that  of  the  Empress ;  when  the  moment  arrived  for  placing 
the  crown  on  the  head  of  the  woman  whom  popular  superstition 
regarded  as  his  good  genius,  his  manner  was  almost  playful. 
He  took  great  pains  to  arrange  this  little  crown,  which  was  placed 
over  Josephine's  tiara  of  diamonds;  he  put  it  on,  then  took  it 
off,  and,  finally,  put  it  on  again,  as  if  to  promise  her  she  should 
wear  it  gracefully  and  lightly. 


EXERCISE  XCII. 

Charles  Phillips,  a  distinguished  Irish  barrister,  was  born  in  Sligo  In 
the  year  1789,  and  died  in  London  in  1859.  As  an  author,  he  is  best  known 
Jt»y  his  "  Recollections  of  Curran  and  some  of  his  Contemporaries."  The 
following  is  from  one  of  his  occasional  addresses. 

SKETCH  OF  BONAPARTE. 

CHARLES   PHIU^Pa. 

1.  He  is  fallen  !  We  may  now  pause  before  that  splendid  pro- 
digy, which  towered  amongst  us  like  some  ancient  ruin,  whose 
frown  terrified  the  glance  its  magnificence  attracted.  Grand, 
gloomy,  and  peculiar,  he  sat  upon  the  throne,  a  sceptered  hermit, 
wrapt  in  the  solitude  of  his  own  originality.  A  mind,  bold, 
independent,  and  decisive — a  will,  despotic  in  its  dictates — an 
energy  that  distanced  expedition,  and  a  co^rfcience  pliable  to 
every  touch  of  interest,  marked  the  outline  of  this  extraordinary 
14*  R 


322 


SANDERS'     UNION    SERIES 


character — the  most  extraordinary,  perhaps,  that,  in  the  annals  of 
this  world,  ever  rose,  or  reigned,  or  fell. 

2.  Flung  into  life  in  the  midst  of  a  revolution  that  quickened 
every  energy  of  a  people  who  acknowledge  no  superior,  he  com- 
nenced  his  course,  a  stranger  by  birth,  and  a  scholar  by  charity  ! 
W'^ith  no  friend  but  his  sword,  and  no  fortune  but  his  talents,  he 
rushed  in  the  iis^where  rank,  and  wealth,  and  genius  had 
arrayed  themselves,  and  competition  fled  from  him  as  from  the 
glance  of  destiny.  He  knew  no~  motive  but  interest  —  he 
acknowledged  no  criterion  but  success — he  worshiped  no  God 
but  ambition,  and,  with  an  eastern  devotion,  he  knelt  at  the 
fchrine  of  his  idolatry. 

3  Subsidiary  to  this,  there  was  no  creed  that  he  did  not  pro- 
fess, there  was  no  opinion  that  he  did  not  promulgate ;  in  the 
hope  of  a  dynasty,  he  upheld  the  Crescent ;  for  the  sake  of  a 
divorce,  he  bowed  before  the  Cross ;  the  orphan  of  St.  Louis,  he 
became  the  adopted  child  of  the  Republic;  and,  with  a  parricidal 
ingratitude,  on  the  ruins  both  of  the  throne  and  tribune,  he 
reared  the  throne  of  his  despotism.  A  professed  Catholic,  he 
imprisoned  the  Pope  j  a  pretended  patriot,  he  impoverished  the 
country ;  and,  in  the  name  of  Brutus,  he  grasped  without  re- 
morse, and  wore  without  shame,  the  diadem  of  the  Caesars ! 
Through  this  pantomime  of  policy,  fortune  played  the  clown  to 
his  caprices.  At  his  touch,  crowns  crumbled,  beggars  reigned, 
systems  vanished,  the  wildest  theories  took  the  color  of  his 
whim,  and  all  that  was  venerable,  and  all  that  was  novel, 
changed  places  with  the  rapidity  of  a  drama. 

4.  Even  apparent  defeat  assumed  the  appearance  of  victory— 
his  flight  from  Egypt  coimmied  his  destiny — ruin  itself  only 
elevated  him  to  empire.  But,  if  his  fortune  was  great,  his  genius 
was  transcendent;  decision  flashed  upon  his  counsels;  and  it  was 
the  same  to  decide  and  to  perform.  To  inferior  intellects  his 
combinations  appeared  perfectly  impossible,  his  plans  perfectly 
impracticable;  but,  in  his  hands,  simplicity  marked  their  develop- 
ment, and  success  vindicated  their  adoption.  His  person  partook 
the  chai;acter  of  his  mind — if  tl  e  one  never  yielded  in  the 
?abinet,  the   other  never   bent   in    the   field.     Nature  had    no 


RHETORICAL    READER.  oZa 

obstacle  that  he  did  not  surmount — space  no  opposition  that  he 
did  not  spurn ;  and  whether  amid  Alpine  rocks,  Arabian  sands, 
or  Polar  snows,  he  seemed  proof  against  peril,  and  empowered 
with  ubiquity ! 

f  The  whole  continent  trembled  at  beholding  the  audacity 
of  Ms  designs,  and  the  miracle  of  their  execution.  Skepticism 
bowed  to  the  prodigies  of  his  performance ;  romance  assumed 
the  air  of  history ;  nor  was  there  aught  too  incredible  for  belief, 
or  .00  fanciful  for  expectation,  when  the  world  saw  a  subaltern 
of  Corsica  waving  his  imperial  flag  over  her  most  ancient  capitals. 
All  the  visions  of  antiquity  became  common-places  in  his  con- 
templation; kings  were  his  people — nations  were  his  outposts  j 
and  he  disposed  of  courts,  and  crowns,  and  camps,  and  churches^ 
and  cabinets,  as  if  they  were  titular  dignitaries  of  the  chess- 
board !     Amid  all  these  changes,  he  stood  immutable  as  adamant. 

6.  It  mattered  little  whether  in  the  field  or  in  the  drawing- 
room — with  the  mob  or  the  levee — wearing  the  Jacobin*  bonnet 
or  the  iron,  crown — banishing  a  Braganza,  or  espousing  a  Haps- 
burg — dictating  peace  on  a  raft  to  the  Czar  of  Russia,  or  con- 
templating defeat  at  the  gallows  of  Leipsic — he  was  still  the 
same  military  despot ! 

7.  In  this  wonderful  combination,  his  affectations  of  literature 
must  not  be  omitted.  The  jailer  of  the  press,  he  affected  the 
patronage  of  letters — the  proscriber  of  books,  he  encouraged 
philosophy — the  persecutor  of  authors  and  the  murderer  of 
printers,  he  yet  pretended  to  the  protection  of  learning  I  Such 
a  medley  of  contradictions,  and,  at  the  same  time,  such  an  indi- 
vidual consistency,  were  never  united  in  the  same  character. 
A  royalist — a  republican  and  an  emperor — a  Mohammedan — a 
Catholic  and  a  patron  of  the  synagogue — a  subaltern  and  a  sove- 
reign— ft  traitor  and  a  tyrant — a  Christian  and  an  infidel — he 
was,  through  all  his  vicissitudes,  the  same  stern,  impatient,  in- 
flexible original — the  same  mysterious,  incomprehensible  self— 
the  man  without  a  model,  and  without  a  shadow. 


*  See  a  Note  on  the  Jacobins,  Exercise  CI. 


824  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES. 


EXERCISE  XCm. 

Mir  4  BEAU,  the  celebrated  French  orator  and  publicist,  so  remarkable  foi 
personal  deformity,  for  the  hardships  endured  during  the  season  of  his  youth, 
for  the  fierce  passions  that  swayed  his  manhood,  for  the  fiery  and  impetuous 
eloquence  wherewith  he  moved,  as  by  a  miracle,  the  men  of  his  times,  wa* 
born  near  Sens,  March  9th,  1749,  and  died  in  Paris,  April  2d,  1791.  Th« 
following  eulogy  was  delivered,  in  June,  1790,  before  the  National  Assemllj 
of  France,  '^f  which  he  was  then  a  member. 

EULOGY  ON  FRANKLIN.* 

HIBABEAU. 

1.  Franklin  is  dead  I  Tiie  genius,  that  freed  America  and 
poured  a  flood  of  light  over  Europe,  has  returned  to  the  bosom 
of  Divinity. 

2.  The  sage  whom  two  worlds  claim  as  their  own,  the  man 
for  whom  the  history  of  science  and  the  history  of  empires  con- 
♦.•^nd  with  each  other,  held,  without  doubt,  a  high  rank  in  the 
human  race. 

3.  Too  long  have  political  cabinets  taken  formal  note  of  the 
death  of  those  who  were  great  only  in  their  funeral  panegyrics. 
Too  long  has  the  etiquette  of  courts  prescribed  hypocritical 
mourning.  Nations  should  wear  mourning  only  for  their  bene- 
factors. The  Representatives  of  nations  should  recommend  to 
their  homage  none  but  the  heroes  of  humanity. 

4.  The  Congress  has  ordained,  throughout  the  United  States, 
a  mourning  of  one  month  for  the  death  of  Franklin ;  and,  at  this 
moment,  America  is  paying  this  tribute  of  veneration  and  grati- 
tude to  one  of  the  fathers  of  her  Constitution. 

5.  Would  it  not  become  us,  gentlemen,  to  join  in  this  religioujs 
act,  to  bear  a  part  in  this  homage,  rendered,  in  the  face  of  the 
world,  both  to  the  rights  of  man  and  to  the  philosopher  who  has 
most  contributed  to  extend  their  sway  over  the  whole  earth  / 

-Antiquity  would  have  raised  altars  to  this  mighty  genius,  who, 
to  the  advantage  of  mankind,  compassing  in  his  mind  the 
heavens  and  earth,  was  able  to  restrain  alike  thunderbolts  and 
tyrants.     Europe,  enlightened  and  free,  owes  at  least  a  token 

*  See  Exercise  CXXXIII. 


RHETOKICAL    READER. 


325 


of  remembrance  and  regret  to  one  of  the  greatest  men  who  have 
ever  been  engaged  in  the  service  of  philosophy  and  of  Uberty 


EXERCISE  XCIV. 

Richard  Baxtkr,  an  eminent  English  divine,  was  born  in  Shropshire,  in 
ino  ytar  1615.  He  died  in  1691.  In  the  civil  wars,  he  took  part  with  the 
Parliament,  though  he  had  no  sympathy  with  those  who  compassed  the  death 
of  Charles  I.  He  denounced  Cromwell's  assumption  of  supreme  power,  and 
advocated  the  return  of  Charles  II.  He  received,  consequently,  considerable 
favor  from  the  king,  though  always  harassed  by  persecuting  enemies.  After 
the  accession  of  James  II.,  in  1685,  he  was  arrested  and  brought  before  the 
merciless  Jeffreys,  where  occurred  the  shocking  scene  described  in  the  piece 
following.  It  should  be  added  that  he  was,  also,  a  voluminous  writer,  chiefly 
on  religious  subjects.  He  is  best  known,  however,  by  his  "  Sainta'  Everlast- 
ing Rest"  and  his  "Call  to  the  Unconverted." 

blEORGE  Jeffreys,  an  English  judge,  whose  brutality  has  condemned  his 
name  to  immortal  infamy,  was  born  in  Wales,  in  the  year  1648,  and  died  in 
the  Tower  of  London  in  1689.  James  II.,  whose  tool  he  was,  made  him  a 
peer  in  1685,  and  soon  after,  in  the  same  year,  lord  high  chancellor:  these 
offices  being  among  the  rewards  of  his  infamous  services. 

James  Stephen,  author  of  the  following  graphic  sketch,  is  one  of.  the 
ablest  of  English  critics  and  reviewers.  The  extract,  given  below,  is  from 
an  article  published  in  the  Edinburgh  Review  in  1839. 


TRIAL  OF  RICHARD  BAXTER. 

JAMES   STEPHEN. 

1.  The  judge  entered  the  court  with  his  face  flaming :  "  he 
snorted  and  squeaked,  blew  his  nose  and  clenched  his  hands, 
and  lifted  up  his  eyes,  mimicking  their  manner,  and  running  on 
furiously,  as  he  said  they  used  to  pray."  The  ermined  buffoon 
extorted  a  smile  from  the  Nonconformists  themselves.  Pollex- 
fen,  the  leading  counsel  for  the  defense,  gave  into  the  humor, 
and  attempted  to  gain  attention  for  his  argument  by  a  jest 
"  My  lord,"  he  said,  "  some  will  think  it  a  hard  measure  to  stop 
these  men's  mouths,  and  not  to  let  them  speak  through  theii 
f  OSes." 

2.  "  Pollexfen,"  said  Jeffreys,  "  I  know  you  well.      You  are 


326  SANDERS'     UNION     SERIES. 

the  patron  of  the  faction;  this  is  an  old  rogue  who  has  poisoned 
the  world  with  his  Kidderminster  doctrine.  He  encouraged  all 
the  women  to  bring  their  bodkins  and  thimbles,  to  carry  on  the 
war  against  their  king,  of  ever  blessed  memory.  An  old  schis- 
matical  knave — a  hypocritical  villain."  "  My  lord,"  replied 
the  counsel,  "  Mr.  Baxter's  loyal  and  peaceable  spirit  King 
Charles  would  have  rewarded  with  a  bishopric,  when  he  came 
in,  if  he  would  have  conformed."  "  Ay,"  said  the  judge,  "  we 
know  that;  but  what  ailed  the  old  blockhead,  the  unthankful 
Til  lain,  that  he  would  not  conform  ?  Is  he  wiser  or  better  than 
jther  men  ?  He  hath  been,  ever  since,  the  spring  of  the  faction, 
I  am  sure  he  hath  poisoned  the  world  with  his  linsey-wolsey 
doctrine,  a  conceited,  stubborn,  fanatical  dog." 

3.  After  one  counsel  and  another  had  been  overborne  by  the 
fury  of  Jeffreys,  Baxter  himself  took  up  the  argument.  "  My 
lord,"  he  said,  "  I  have  been  so  moderate  with  respect  to  the 
Ohurch  of  England,  that  I  have  incurred  the  censure  of  many 
3f  the  Dissenters  on  that  account."  "  Baxter  for  bishops !" 
exclaimed  the  judge,  "  is  a  merry  conceit,  indeed.  Turn  to  it, 
turn  to  it !"  On  this  one  of  the  counsel  turned  to  a  passage  in 
the  libel,  which  stated  that  "  great  respect  is  due  to  those  truly 
•Jailed  bishops  amongst  us." 

4.  "Ay,"  said  Jeffreys,  "this  is  your  Presbyterian  cant; 
truly  called  to  be  bishops ;  that  is  of  himself  and  such  rascals, 
called  the  bishops  of  Kidderminster,  and  other  such  places. 
The  bishops  set  apart  by  such  factious,  sniveling  Presbyterians 
as  himself;  a  Kidderminster  bishop  he  means,  according  to  the 
saying  of  a  late  learned  author,  every  parish  shall  maintain  a 
tithe-pig  metropolitan." 

5.  Baxter  offering  to  speak  again,  Jeffreys  exploded  in  the 
following  apostrophe :  "  Richard  !  Richard  !  dost  thou  think 
here  to  poison  the  court  ?  Richard,  thou  art  an  old  fellow — an 
old  knave ;  thou  hast  written  books  enough  to  load  a  cart,  every 
one  as  full  of  sedition,  I  might  say  treason,  as  an  Q^g  is  full  of 
meat.  Hadst  thou  been  whipped  out  of  thy  writing  trade  forty 
years  ago,  it  had  been  happy.  I  know  that  thou  hast  a  mighty 
party,  and  I  see  a  great  many  of  the  brotherhood  in  corners 


EHETORICAL    READER.  327 

waiting  to  see  what  will  become  of  their  mighty  don,  and  a 
doctor  of  your  party  at  your  elbow ;  but  I  will  crush  you  all 
Come,  what  do  you  say  for  yourself,  you  old  knave — come,  speak 
up  ;  what  doth  he  say?  I  am  not  afraid  of  him,  or  of  all  the 
sniv^eling  calves  you  have  got  about  you," — alluding  to  some 
persons  who  were  in  tears  at  this  scene. 

6  "  Your  lordship  need  not,"  said  Baxter,  "  for  I'll  not  hurt 
50U  But  these  things  will  surely  be  understood  one  day; 
what  fools  one  sort  of  Protestants  are  made,  to  prosecute  the 
othei  "  Then  lifting  up  his  eyes  to  heaven,  he  said, — "  I  am  not 
concerned  to  answer  such  stuff,  but  am  ready  to  produce  my 
writings,  in  confutation  .of  all  this;  and  my  life  and  conversation 
are  known  to  many  in  this  nation." 

7.  The  jury  returned  a  verdict  of  guilty,  and  but  for  the 
resistance  of  other  judges,  Jeffreys  would  have  added  whipping 
through  the  city  to  the  sentence  of  imprisonment.  It  was  to 
continue  until  the  prisoner  should  have  paid  five  hundred  marks. 
Baxter  was  at  that  time  in  his  70th  year.  A  childless  widower, 
groaning  under  the  agonies  of  bodily  pain,  and  reduced  by 
former  persecutions  to  sell  all  that  he  possessed ;  he  entered  the 
King's  Bench  prison  in  utter  poverty,  and  remained  there  for 
nearly  two  years,  hopeless  of  any  other  abode  on  earth. 

8.  But  the  hope  of  a  mansion  of  eternal  peace  and  love  raised 
him  beyond  the  reach  of  human  tyranny.  He  possessed  his  soul 
in  patience.  Wise  and  good  men  resorted  to  his  prison,  and 
brought  back  greetings  to  his  distant  friends,  and  maxims  of 
piety  and  prudence.  Happy  in  the  review  of  a  well  spent  life, 
and  still  happier  in  the  prospect  of  its  early  close,  his  spirit 
enjoyed  a  calm  for  which  his  enemies  might  have  well  exchanged 
their  miters  and  their  thrones.  The  altered  policy  of  the  court 
.'estored  him  for  awhile  to  the  questionable  advantage  of  bodily 
freedom.  But  age,  sickness,  and  persecution  had  done  their 
work.  In  profound  lowliness,  with  a  settled  reliance  on  the 
Divine  mercy,  and  })reathing  out  benedictions  on  those  who 
encircled  his  dying  bed,  he  soon  passed  away  from  a  life  of 
almost  unequaled  toil  and  suffering  tc  a  new  condition  of 
existence 


328  SANDEES'    UNION     SERIES, 


EXERCISE   XCV. 

KiCHARD  Brinsley  Sheridan,  ail  English  dramatist  and  politician,  WM 
born  in  Dublin  in  1751,  and  died  in  1816.  As  a  dramatist,  hia  most  brilliant 
ind  popular  works  are  ''^  The  Rivals''''  and  '■^  The  School  for  Scandal,^^— two 
2omedies  of  almos'  unrivaled  excellence.  In  1780  he  was  elected  a  member 
of  Parliament.  His  first  attempt,  as  a  speaker,  in  Parliament,  was  considered 
a  falure ;  but  lie  afterward  shone  as  a  Parliamentary  orator.  In  1787,  he 
Vrought  forward  the  charge  against  the  celebrated  "Warren  Hastings  in  respect 
to  tbe  spoliation  of  the  princesses  of  Oude.  This  he  did  in  a  speech  which  ia 
regarded  by  some  as  tl  e  best  of  his  life.  From  this  we  take  the  followLig 
boautiful  extract. 

FILIAL  PIETY. 

''  SHERIDAN. 

Filial  piety  ! — It  is  the  primal  boad  of  society — it  is  that 
iiv^tinctive  principle  which,  panting  for  its  proper  good,  soothes, 
unbidden,  each  sense  and  sensibility  of  man  ! — it  now  quivers 
on  every  lip  ! — it  now  beams  from  every  eye  ! — it  is  an  emana- 
tion of  that  gratitude,  which,  softening  under  the  sense  of 
recollected  good,  is  eager  to  own  the  vast,  countless  debt  it  ne'er, 
alas  !  can  pay,  for  so  many  long  years  of  unceasing  solicitudes, 
honorable  self-denials,  life-preserving  cares  ! — it  is  that  part  of 
our  practice  where  duty  drops  its  awe  ! — where  reverence  refines 
into  love  ! — it  asks  no  aid  of  memory  ! — it  needs  not  the  deduc- 
tions of  reason  ! — pre-existing,  paramount  over  all,  whether  law, 
or  human  rule,  few  arguments  can  increase,  and  none  can 
diminish  it ! — it  is  the  sacrament  of  our  nature  ! — not  only  the 
duty — but  the  indulgence  of  a  man — it  is  his  first  great  privi- 
lege— it  is  among  his  last,  most  endearing  delights  ! — it  causes 
the  bosom  to  glow  with  reverberated  love ! — it  requites  the  visi- 
tations of  nature,  and  returns  the  blessings  that  have  been 
received!  —  it  fires  emotion  into  vital  principle  —  it  renders 
habituated  instinct  into  a  master  passion — sways  all  the  sweetest 
energies  of  man — hangs  over  each  vicissitude  of  all  that  must 
pash  away — aids  the  melancholy  virtues  in  their  last  sad  tasks 
of  life,  to  cheer  the  languors  of  decrepitude  and  age — explores 
the  thought — elucidates  the  aching  eye  ! — and  breathes  jawpat. 
consolation  even  in  the  awful  moment  of  dissolution  I 


RHETORICAL     READER.  J529 


EXERCISE    XCVI. 

Enigma  is  derived  from  a  Greek  word  signifying  to  speak  darkly,  tbat 
is,  to  hint  at.  It  is,  therefore,  applied  to  all  compositions  in  -which  tha 
language  is  designedly  obscure  and  ambiguous,  and  is  left  to  the  reader  to 
be  made  out  by  conjecture.  The  following  are  beautiful  specimenfi  of  thxa 
kind  of  composition. 

ENIGMA. 

1088  VAirSB^WB. 
I. 

'Twas  whispered  in  heaven,  and  muttered  in  hell, 
And  echo  caught  faintly  the  sound  as  it  fell ; 
On  the  confines  of  earth  'twas  permitted  to  rest, 
And  the  depths  of  the  ocean  its  presence  confessed ; 
'Twas  seen  in  the  lightning,  and  heard  in  the  thunder; 
'Twill  be  found  in  the  spheres,  when  riv-en  asunder; 
'Twas  given  to  man  with  his  earliest  breath, 
Assists  at  his  birth,  and  attends  him  in  death  j 
Presides  o'er  his  happiness,  honor,  and  health, 
Is  the  prop  of  his  house,  and  the  end  of  his  wealth. 

II. 

It  begins  every  hope,  every  wish  it  must  bound, 
And  though  unassuming,  with  monarchs  is  crowned. 
In  the  heaps  of  the  miser  'tis  hoarded  with  care. 
But  is  sure  to  be  lost  in  his  prodigal  heir. 
Without  it  the  soldier  and  sailor  may  roam, 
But  woe  to  the  wretch  who  expels  it  from  home. 
In  the  whispers  of  conscience  its  voice  will  be  found, 
Nor  e'er  in  the  whirlwind  of  passion  be  drowned. 
It  softens  the  heart;  and,  though  deaf  to  the  ear. 
It  will  make  it  acutely  and  instantly  hear. 
But  in  shade  let  it  rest,  like  a  delicate  flower — 
0,  breathe  on  it  softly ;  it  dies  in  an  hour.* 

*  The  letter  H. 


330  SANDICUS'     UNION     SERIES. 


ANOTHER  ENIGMA. 


Where  Nature  wears  her  wildest  dress, 

In  colors  all  her  own, 
Wliere  howling  winds  rage  merciless, 

I  spread  my  stormy  throne : 
And  loud  and  angry,  wild  and  rude, 
I  reign  in  dreary  solitude. 

II. 

When  summer  skies  are  clear  to  view, 
And  sunbeams  dance  around, 

I  wear  a  robe  of  purest  blue, 
With  silvery  fringes  bound  j 

And  blush  and  sparkle,  smile  and  play, 

Like  beauty  on  a  festal  day. 

in. 
Sweet  evening  sets  her  earliest  star 

Upon  my  peaceful  breast, 
And  I  restore  the  gems  afar. 

To  deck  Aurora's  vest; 
The  host  of  heaven,  in  bright  array, 
To  me,  by  turns,  their  homage  pay. 

IV. 

The  silent  cave,  the  sparkling  grot, 
In  unknown  realms,  I  ween. 

Where  foot  of  mortal  enters  not, 
Nor  vulture's  eye  hath  seen-^ 

*Tis  there  I  love  to  steal  along, 

And  pour  ray  evei lasting  song. 

*  See  Note  on  Exercise  XVII. 


JANB  TATLOB.* 


EHETORICAL    READEH.  331 

V. 

And  there,  with  pearl  and  amber  crowned, 

I  hold  my  gentler  court, 
While  freshest  breezes  play  around. 

And  merry  mermaids  sport ; 
And  thousand  graceful  Naiads  stand, 
With  streaming  urns  in  either  hand. 


EXERCISE  XCVII. 

Ltdia  Huntlet  Sigoubney  was  born  at  Norwich,  Connecticut,  ia  the 
7ear  1791.  Early  in  the  field  of  authorship  and  assiduous  in  its  culture,  £ho 
has  continued  to  labor  till  some  fifty  or  more  volumes,  it  is  said,  stand  forth 
to  attest  her  claims  to  deserved  distinction.  She  is  known  chiefly  as  a 
poetess;  but  she  has  written  much  in  prose,  and,  thu-;,  has  richly  earned 
the  praise  of  having  ministered  gracefully  and  successfully  to  the  well-being 
and  well-doing  of  her  fellow-creatures. 

E  PHEM''  E  RAL  (Ep,  Oil,  and  Hkmeral,  pertaining  to  a  day)  is  a  Greek 
word,  rnQsmin^  periaining  to,  or  lasting  for  a  day;  transitory;  short- 
lived. 

THE  CORAL-INSECT. 

ma.  BKOUKNEI. 

I. 

Toil  on  !  toil  on  !  ye  ephemeral  train, 

Who  build  on  the  tossing  and  treacherous  main ; 

Toil  on ! — for  the  wisdom  of  man  ye  mock, 

With  your  sand-based  structures  and  domes  of  rock ; 

Your  columns  the  fathomless  fountains  lave. 

And  your  arches  spring  up  to  the  crested  wave  j 

Ye're  a  puuy  race,  thus  to  boldly  rear 

A  fabric  so  vast,  in  a  realm  so  drear. 


II. 

Xe  bind  the  deep  with  your  secret  zone. 
The  ocean  is  sealed,  and  the  surge  a  stone; 


332  SANDERS'     JNION     SERIES. 

Fresh  wreaths  from  the  coral  pavement  spring, 

Like  the  terraced  pride  of  Assyria's  king; 

The  turf  looks  green  where  the  breakers  rolled ; 

O'er  the  whirlpool  ripens  the  rind  of  gold ; 

The  sea- snatched  isle  is  the  home  of  men, 

And  the  mountains  exult  where  the  wave  hath  been 

III. 
But  why  do  ye  plant  'neath  the  billows  dark 
The  wrecking  reef  for  the  gallant  bark  ? 
There  are  snares  enough  on  the  tented  field, 
Mid  the  blossomed  sweets  that  the  valleys  yield ; 
There  are  serpents  to  coil,  ere  the  flowers  are  up  j 
There's  a  poison  drop  in  the  man's  purest  cup  j 
There  are  foes  that  watch  for  his  cradle  breath ; 
And  why  need  ye  sow  the  floods  with  death  ? 

IV. 
With  moldering  bones  the  deeps  are  white, 
From  the  ice-clad  pole  to  the  tropics  bright ; 
The  mermaid  hath  twisted  her  fingers  cold 
With  the  mesh  of  the  sea-boy's  curls  of  gold, 
And  the  gods  of  ocean  have  frowned  to  see 
The  mariner's  bed  in  their  halls  of  glee ; 
Hath  earth  no  graves,  that  ye  thus  must  spread 
The  boundless  sea  for  the  thronging  dead  ? 

V. 

Ye  build — ye  build  -but  ye  enter  not  in. 

Like  the  tribes  whom  the  desert  devoured  in  their  sin  j 

From  the  land  of  promise  ye  fade  and  die. 

Ere  its  verdure  gleams  forth  on  your  weary  eye; 

As  the  kings  of  the  cloud-crowned  pyramid, 

Their  noteless  bones  in  oblivion  hid. 

Ye  slumber  unmarked  'mid  the  desolate  main, 

While  the  wonder  and  pride  of  your  works  remain. 


RHETORICAL    READER  333 


EXERCISE  XCVIIl. 


George  Ticknor  was  born  in  Boston,  Massachusetts?,  August  Ist,  1791. 
After  ample  study  and  travel  abroad,  he  entered,  in  1820,  upon  the  Profes- 
sorship of  Modern  Languages  and  Literature  in  Harvard  University.  In 
tbif  position,  he  achieved  a  reputation  for  richness,  variety,  and  depth  of 
learning,  and  for  extraordinary  power  and  polish  of  diction,  such  as  belongs 
only  to  merit  of  the  highest  order.  For  fifteen  years  he  continued  his  labors 
In  this  connection.  Then  again  he  visited  Europe.  Nine  years  after  his 
return,  in  1840,  he  published  his  great  work—*'  The  History  of  Spaniah 
Literature,"  which,  with  his  other  contributions  to  literature,  immediately 
fixed  1:18  claims  to  distinction  on  the  most  enduring  foundation. 

THE  ALM  OF  DON  QUIXOTE. 

GEORGE  TICKNOE. 

1.  At  the  very  beginning  of  his  great  work,  Cervantes 
announces  it  to  be  his  sole  purpose  to  break  down  the  vogue  and 
authority  of  books  of  chivalry,  and  at  the  end  of  the  whole,  he 
declares  anew,  in  his  own  person,  that  "  he  had  no  other  desire 
than  to  render  abhorred  of  men  the  false  and  absurd  stories  con- 
tained in  books  of  chivalry;"  exulting  in  his  success,  as  an 
achievement  of  no  small  moment.  And  such,  in  fact,  it  was ; 
for  we  have  abundant  proof  that  the  fanaticism  for  these  romances 
was  so  great  in  Spain,  during  the  sixteenth  century,  as  to  have 
become  matter  of  alarm  to  the  more  judicious. 

2.  To  destroy  a  passion  that  had  struck  its  roots  so  deeply  in 
the  character  of  all  classes  of  men,  to  break  up  the  only  reading 
which,  at  that  time,  could  be  considered  widely  popular  and 
fashionable,  was  certainly  a  bold  undertaking,  and  one  that 
marks  anything  rather  than  a  scornful  or  broken  spirit,  or  a 
want  of  faith  in  what  is  most  to  be  valued  in  our  common  nature. 
The  great  wonder  is,  that  Cervantes  succeeded.  But  that  he 
did,  there  is  no  question.  No  book  of  chivalry  was  written  after 
the  appearance  of  Don  Quixote  in  1605 ;  and  from  that  date, 
even  those  already  enjoying  the  greatest  favor  ceased,  with  one 
01  two  unimportant  exceptions,  to  be  reprinted :  so  that,  from 
that  time  to  the  present,  they  have  been  constantly  disappearing, 
until  they  are  now  among  the  rarest  of  literary  curiosities. 

-  3.  The  general  plan  Cervantes    adopted  to  accomplish    this 
object,  without,  perhaps,  foreseeing  its  whole  course,  and  still 


334  SANDERS'     UNION     SERIE3 

.ess  all  its  results,  was  simple  as  well  as  original.  In  1605,  lie 
published  the  First  Part  of  Don  Quixote,  in  which  a  country 
gentleman  of  La  Mancha — full  of  genuine  Castilian  honor  and 
enthusiasm,  gentle  and  dignified  in  his  character,  trusted  by  his 
friends,  and  loved  by  his  dependents — is  represented  as  so  com- 
pletely crazed  by  long  reading  the  most  famous  books  of  chivalry, 
that  he  believes  them  to  be  true,  and  feels  himself  called  on  to 
become  the  impossible  knight-errant  they  describe, — nay,  actually 
goes  forth  into  the  world  to  defend  the  oppressed  and  avenge  the 
injured,  like  the  heroes  of  his  romances. 

4.  To  complete  his  chivalrous  equipment, — which  he  had 
begun  by  fitting  up  for  himself  a  suit  of  armor  strange  to  his 
century, — he  took  an  esquire  out  of  his  neighborhood  ;  a  middle- 
aged  peasant,  ignorant  and  credulous  to  excess,  but  of  great 
good-nature  j  a  glutton  and  a  liar  j  selfish  and  gross,  yet  attached 
to  his  master  j  shrewd  enough  occasionally  to  see  the  folly  of 
their  position,  but  always  amusing,  and  sometimes  mischievous 
in  his  interpretations  of  it. 

5.  These  two  sally  forth  from  their  native  village,  in  search  of 
adventures  of  which  the  excited  imagination  of  the  knight, 
turning  windmills  into  giants,  solitary  inns  into  castles,  and 
galley-slaves  into  oppressed  gentlemen,  finds  abundance  wherever 
he  goes ;  while  the  esquire  translates  them  all  into  the  plain 
prose  of  truth  with  an  admirable  simplicity,  quite  unconscious 
of  its  own  humor,  and  rendered  the  more  striking  by  its  contrast 
with  the  lofty  and  courteous  dignity  and  magnificent  illusions  of 
the  superior  personage.  There  could,  of  course,  be  but  one  con- 
sistent termination  of  adventures  like  these.  The  knight  and 
his  esquire  suffer  a  series  of  ridiculous  discomfitures,  and  are,  at 
last,  brought  home,  like  madmen,  to  their  native  village,  where 
Cervantes  leaves  them  with  an  intimation  that  the  story  of  theii 
adventures  is  by  no  means  ended. 

6.  The  latter  half  of  Don  Quixote  is  a  contradiction  of  the 
proverb  Cervantes  cites  in  it, — that  second  parts  were  never  yet 
good  for  much.  It  is,  in  fact,  better  than  the  first.  But, 
throughout  both  parts,  Cervantes  shows  the  impulses  and 
instincts  of  an    original  power  with   most  distinctness  in  his 


RHETORICAL    READER.  335 

ilevclopment  of  the  characters  of  Don  Quixote  and  Sanchoj 
characters  iu  whose  contrast  and  opposition  is  hidden  the  full 
spirit  of  his  peculiar  humor,  and  no  small  part  of  what  is  most 
characteristic  of  the  entire  fiction.  They  are  his  prominent  per 
sonages.  He  delights,  therefore,  to  have  them  as  much  aft 
possible  in  the  front  of  his  scene. 

7.  The  knight  becomes  gradually  a  detached,  separate,  anc 
wholly  independent  personage  into  whom  is  infused  so  much  of 
a  generous  and  elevated  nature,  such  gentleness  and  delicacy, 
such  a  pure  sense  of  honor,  and  such  a  warm  love  for  whatever 
is  noble  and  good,  that  we  feel  almost  the  same  attachment  to 
him  that  the  barber  and  the  curate  did,  and  are  almost  as  ready 
as  his  family  was,  to  mourn  over  his  death. 

8.  The  case  of  Sancho  is,  again,  very  similar,  and,  perhaps,  in 
some  respects  stronger.  At  first,  he  is  introduced  as  the  opposite 
of  Don  Quixote,  and  used  merely  to  bring  out  his  master's 
peculiarities  in  a  more  striking  relief.  It  is  not  until  we  have 
gone  through  nearly  half  of  the  First  Part  that  he  utters  one  of 
those  proverbs  which  form  afterwards  the  staple  of  his  conversa- 
tion and  humor ;  and  it  is  not  until  the  opening  of  the  Second 
Part,  and,  indeed,  not  till  he  comes  forth,  in  all  his  mingled 
shrewdness  and  credulity,  as  governor  of  Barataria,  that  his 
character  is  quite  developed  and  completed  to  the  full  measure 
of  its  grotesque,  yet  congruous  proportions. 

9.  But,  if  we  would  do  Cervantes  the  justice  that  would  have 
been  dearest  to  his  own  spirit,  and  even  if  we  would  ourselves 
fully  comprehend  and  enjoy  the  whole  of  his  Don  Quixote,  we 
fhould,  as  we  read  it,  bear  in  mind  that  this  deli^,htful  romance 
was  not  the  result  of  a  youthful  exuberance  of  feeling,  and  a 
happy  external  condition,  nor  composed  in  his  best  years,  when 
the  spirits  of  its  author  were  light  and  his  hopes  high  :  but  that, 
with  all  its  unquenchable  and  irresistible  humor,  with  its  bright 
views  of  the  world,  and  its  cheerful  trust  in  goodness  and  virtue, 
il  was  written  in  his  old  age,  at  the  conclusion  of  a  life  nearly 
every  step  of  which  had  been  marked  with  disappointed  eypecta- 
tions,  disheartening  struggles,  and  sore  calamities;  that  he  began 
it  in  a  prison,  and  that  it  was  finished  when  he  felt  the  hand  of 


*36  SANDERS'     UNION     SERIES. 

death  pressing  heavy  and  cold  upon  his  heart.  If  this  b6 
remembered  as  we  read,  we  may  feel,  as  we  ought  to  feel,  what 
admiration  and  reverence  are  due,  not  only  to  the  living  power 
of  Don  Quixote,  but  to  the  character  and  genius  of  Cervantes; 
if  it  be  forgotten  or  underrated,  we  shall  fail  in  regard  to  both. 


EXERCISE  XCIX. 


MiauEL  DB  Saavedra  Cbrvaktes  was  born  in  the  vicinity  of  Madrid,  in 
Spain,  in  October,  1547.  He  died  in  April,  1616.  In  early  life  he  was  much 
given  to  poetry,  but  wrote  largely  afterwards  both  in  verse  and  prose.  His 
chief  work,  however,  is  the  celebrated  romance  called  "  Don  Quixote."  For 
the  aim  of  this  famous  production  and  a  further  account  of  its  author,  see 
Exercise  XCVIII.  preceding.  In  the  extract  which  follows,  Sancho  Panza 
is  represented  as  receiving  instructions  from  Don  Quixote,  respecting  hia 
new  olBce,  as  governor  of  an  island,  which  had  long  been  promised  him  as 
the  reward  of  faithful  service  to  his  master. 

DON  QUIXOTE  AND  SANCHO  PANZA. 

OBBVAinXS. 

1.  Don  Quixote,  hearing  how  soon  Sancho  was  to  depart  to 
his  new  government,  took  him  by  the  hand,  and  led  him  to  his 
chamber,  in  order  to  give  him  some  advice,  respecting  his  con- 
duct in  oflfice  : — "  First,  my  son,  fear  Grod  :  for,  to  fear  him  is 
wisdom;  and  being  wise,  thou  canst  net  err.  Secondly,  con- 
sider what  thou  art,  and  endeavor  to  know  thyself,  which  is  the 
most  difficult  study  of  all.  The  knowledge  of  thyself  will  pre- 
serve thee  from  vanity,  and  the  fate  of  the  frog  who  foolishly 
vied  with  the  ox,  will  serve  thee  as  a  caution :  the  recollection, 
too,  of  having  been  formerly  a  swineherd,  in  thine  own  country, 
will  be  to  thee,  in  the  loftiness  of  thy  pride,  like  the  ugly  feet 
of  the  peacock." 

2.  "  It  is  true,"  said  Sancho,  "  that  I  once  did  keep  swine, 
but  I  was  only  a  hoi/  then ;  when  I  grew  towards  manhood^  I 
looked  after  geese^  and  not  hoys.  But  this,  methinks,  is  nothing 
to  the  purpose ;  for  all  governors  are  not  descended  from  kings." 
"  That  I  grant,"  replied  Don  Quixote :  "  and,  therefore,  those 


RHETORICAL    READER.  '  837 

who  have  not  the  advantage  of  noble  descent,  shculd  fail  not  to 
grace  the  dignity  of  the  office  they  bear,  with  gentleness  and 
modesty,  which,  when  accompanied  with  discretion,  will  silence 
those  murmurs  which  few  situations  in  life  can  escape. 

3.  "Conceal  not  the  meanness  of  thy  family,  nor  think  it 
disgraceful  to  be  descended  from  peasants :  for,  when  it  is  seen 
that  thou  art  not  thyself  ashamed,  none  will  endeavor  to  make 
thee  so ;  and  deem  it  more  meritorious  to  be  a  virtuous  humble 
man  than  a  lofty  sinner.  Infinite  is  the  number  of  those  who, 
born  low  of  extraction,  have  risen  to  the  highest  dignities,  both 
in  church  and  state ;  and  of  this  truth  I  could  tire  thee  with 
examples. 

4.  "  Remember,  Sancho,  if  thou  takest  virtue  for  the  rule  of 
life,  and  vainest  thyself  upon  acting  in  all  things  conformably 
thereto,  thou  wilt  have  no  cause  to  envy  lords  and  princes ;  for 
blood  is  inherited,  but  virtue  is  a  common  property,  and  may  be 
acquired  by  all;  it  has,  moreover,  an  intrinsic  worth  which 
blood  has  not.  This  being  so,  if,  peradventure,  any  one  of  thy 
kindred  visit  thee  in  thy  government,  do  not  slight^  nor  affront 
him  J  but  receive,  cherish,  and  make  much  of  him ;  for,  in  so 
doing,  thou  wilt  please  God,  who  allows  none  of  his  creatures 
to  be  despised;  and  thou,  also,  wilt  manifest  therein  a  well- 
disposed  nature. 

5.  "  Be  not  under  the  dominion  of  thine  own  will ;  it  is  the 
vice  of  the  ignorant,  who  vainly  presume  on  their  own  under- 
standing. Let  the  tears  of  the  poor  find  more  compassion,  but 
not  more  justice  from  thee,  than  the  applications  of  the  wealthy. 
Be  equally  solicitous  to  sift  out  the  truth  amidst  the  presents 
and  promises  of  the  rich,  and  the  sighs  and  entreaties  of  the 
pool.  Whenever  equity  may  justly  temper  the  rigor  of  the 
law,  let  not  the  whole  force  of  it  bear  upon  the  delinquent ;  for 
it  is  better  that  a  judge  should  lean  on  the  side  of  compassion 
than  severity.  If,  perchance,  the  scales  of  justice  be  not  cor- 
rectly balanced,  let  the  error  be  imputable  to  pity,  not  to  gold. 
If,  perchance,  the  cause  of  thine  enemy  come  before  thee,  forget 
thy  injuries,  and  think  only  on  the  merits  of  the  case.  Let  not 
private  afi"ection   blind   thee  in  another  man's  cause;  for  the 

15  6  K 


838  SANDERS'     UNION     SERIES. 

errors  thou  shalt  thereby  commit,  are  often  without  remedy,  ani 
at  the  expense  of  both  thy  reputation  and  fortune. 

6.  When  a  beautiful  woman  comes  before  thee  to  demand 
justice,  consider  maturely  the  nature  of  her  claim,  without  re- 
garding either  her  tears  or  her  s/^Aa,  unless  thou  wouldst  expose 
thy  judgment  to  the  danger  of  being  lost  in  the  one,  and  thy 
integrity  in  the  other.  Revile  not  with  words  him  whom  thou 
hast  to  correct  with  deeds :  the  punishment  which  the  unhappy 
wretch  is  doomed  to  suffer  is  sufficient,  without  the  addition  of 
abusive  language.  When  the  criminal  stands  before  thee,  re- 
collect the  frail  and  depraved  nature  of  man,  and,  as  much  as 
thou  canst,  without  injustice  to  the  suffering  party,  show  pity 
and  clemency ;  for,  though  all  the  attributes  of  God  are  equally 
adorable,  yet  his  mercy  is  more  shining  and  attractive  in  our 
eyes  than  his  justice. 

7.  "  If,  Sancho,  thou  observest  these  precepts,  thy  days  wiL 
be  long  and  thy  fame  eternal :  thy  recompense  full  and  thy 
felicity  unspeakable.  Thou  shalt  marry  thy  children  to  thy 
heart's  content,  and  they  and  thy  grandchildren  shall  want 
neither  honors  nor  titles.  Beloved  by  all  men,  thy  days  shall 
pass  in  peace  and  tranquillity ;  and  when  the  inevitable  period 
comes,  death  shall  steal  on  thee  in  a  good  and  venerable  old  age, 
and  thy  grandchildren's  children,  with  their  tender  and  piouA 
hands,  shall  close  thine  eyes. 

8.  "  But  here  let  it  rest,  Sancho,  for,  if  thou  governest  ill, 
though  the  fault  will  be  thine,  the  shame  will  be  mine.  How- 
ever, I  am  comforted  in  having  given  the  best  counsel  in  my 
power ;  and,  therein  having  done  my  duty,  I  am  acquitted  both 
of  my  obligation  and  my  promise ;  so  God  speed  thee,  Sancho, 
and  govern  thee  in  thy  government,  and  deliver  me  from  the 
fears  I  entertain,  that  thou  wilt  turn  the  whole  island  topsy- 
turvy!" 

&.  "  Look  you,  sir,"  replied  Sancho,  "  if  your  worship  thinks 
I  am  not  fit  for  this  government,  I  renounce  it  from  this  time  j 
for  I  have  more  regard  for  a  single  nail's  breadth  of  my  soul^ 
than  for  my  whole  body;  and  plain  Sancho  can  live  a.s  well  upon 
bread  and  onions,  as  governor  Sancho  upon  capon  and  partridge 


RHETORTCAL    READER.  OSV 

Besides,  sleep  makes  us  all  alike,  great  and  small,  rich  and  poor 
Call  to  mind,  too,  who  first  put  this  whim  of  governing  into  my 
head — who  was  it  but  yourself?  for,  alack,  I  know  no  more 
about  governing  islands  than  a  bustard;  and,  if  you  fancy  that, 
in  case  I  should  be  a  governor,  the  devil  will  have  me — in  God'a 
name,  let  me  rather  go  to  Heaven  plain  Sancho,  than  a  governor 
to  Hell " 

10.  "  Before  God,  Sancho,"  quoth  Pon  Quixote,  "  for  those 
.ast  words  of  thine,  I  think  that  thou  deservest  to  be  governor  of  a 
thousand  islands  !  Thou  hast  a  good  disposition,  without  which 
knowledge  is  of  no  value.  Pray  to  God,  and  endeavor  not  to 
err  in  thy  intention;  I  mean,  let  it  ever  be  thy  unshaken  pur- 
pose and  design  to  do  right  in  whatever  business  occurs;  foi 
Heaven  constantly  favors  a  good  intention." 


EXERCISE  G. 

Uhapman  and  Shirley  were  contemporary  English  dramatists  in  the  early 
part  of  the  seventeenth  century.  The  former  was  much  the  older  man,  and 
is  distinguished  as  being  the  earliest  English  translator  of  Homer»  Tha 
subject  of  the  following  extract,  which  is  given  by  Charles  Lamb,  as  theii 
joint  production,  is  explained  in  the  note  below. 

Philip  Chabot  (Chabo),  Admiral  of  France,  being  accused  of  treason, 
a  criminal  process  is  instituted  against  him,  and  his  faithful  servant 
Allegro  is  put  on  the  rack  to  make  him  discover.  His  innocence  is  at 
length  established  by  the  confession  of  his  enemies ;  but  the  disgrace 
of  having  been  suspected  for  a  traitor  by  his  Royal  Master,  sinks  a%. 
deep  into  his  heart,  that  he  falls  into  a  mortal  sickness. 

THE  FATAL  CHARGE. 

OHAPMAN  AND  SmSLKT 

Admi  RAL,  and  Allegre,  supported  between  two  persons. 

Adm.  Welcome,  my  injured  servant;  what  a  misery 
Have  they  made  on  thee  I 

AUeg.  Though  some  change  appear 
Upon  my  body  whose  severe  affliction 


S40  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES. 

Hafh  brought  it  thus  to  be  sustained  by  others, 
My  heart  is  still  the  same  in  faith  to  you, 
Not  broken  with  their  rage. 

Adm.  Alas,  poor  man  ! 
Were  all  my  joys  essential,  and  so  mighty, 
A.S  the  aflfected  world  believes  I  taste, 
This  object  were  enough  t'  unsweeten  all. 
Though  in  thy  absence,  I  had  suflfering, 
And  fel*  within  me  a  strong  sympathy, 
While,  lor  my  sake,  their  cruelty  did  vex, 
And  fright  thy  nerves,  with  horror  of  thy  sense, 
Fet  in  this  spectacle  I  apprehend 
More  grief,  than  all  my  imagination 
Could  let  before  into  me.     Didst  not  curse  me 
Upon  the  torture  ? 

Alleg.  Good  my  lord,  let  not 
That  thought  of  what  I  suffered  dwell  upon 
Tour  memory ;  they  could  not  punish  more 
Than  what  my  duty  did  oblige  to  bear 
For  you  and  justice  :  but  there's  something,  in 
Your  looks,  presents  more  fear,  than  all  the  malice 
Of  my  tormentors  could  affect  my  soul  with. 
That  paleness,  and  the  other  forms  you  wear, 
Would  well  become  a  guilty  admiral,  one 
Lost  to  his  hopes  and  honor,  not  the  man 
Upon  whose  life  the  fury  of  injustice. 
Armed  with  fierce  lightning  and  the  power  of  thunder, 
Can  make  no  breach.     I  was  not  racked  till  now. 
There's  more  death  in  that  falling  eye,  than  all 
Rage  ever  yet  brought  forth.     What  accident,  sir,  can  blast,- 
Can  be  so  black  and  fatal,  to  distract 
The  calm,  the  triumph,  that  should  sit  upon 
Your  noble  brow :  misfortune  could  have  no 
rime  to  conspire  with  fate,  since  you  were  rescued 
By  the  great  arm  of  Providence ;  nor  can 
Those  garlands,  that  now  grow  about  your  forehead, 
With  all  the  poison  of  the  world,  be  blasted. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  341 

Adm.  Allegre,  thou  dost  bear  thy  wounds  upon  thee 
In  wide  and  spacious  characters;  but,  in 
The  volume  of  my  sadness,  thou  dost  want 
An  eye  to  read.     An  open  force  hath  torn 
Thy  manly  sinews,  which  some  time  may  cure. 
The  engine  is  not  seen,  that  wounds  thy  master, — 
Past  all  the  remedy  of  art,  or  time. 
The  flatteries  of  court,  of  fame  or  honors. 
Thus,  in  the  summer,  a  tall  flouri.shing  tree, 
Transplanted  by  strong  hand,  with  all  her  leaves 
And  blooming  pride  upon  her,  makes  a  show 
Of  spring,  tempting  the  eye  with  wanton  blossoms; 
But  not  the  sun  with  all  her  amorous  smiles, 
The  dews  of  morning,  or  the  tears  of  night. 
Can  root  her  fibers  in  the  earth  again ; 
Or  make  her  bosom  kind,  to  growth  and  bearing : 
But  the  tree  withers ;  and  those  very  beams. 
That  once  were  natural  warmth  to  her  soft  verdure, 
Dry  up  her  sap,  and  shoot  a  fever  through 
The  bark  and  rind,  till  she  becomes  a  burden 
To  that  which  gave  her  life  :  so  Chabot,  Chabot — 

Alley.  Wander  in  apprehension  !     I  must 
Suspect  your  health,  indeed. 

Adm.  No,  no,  thou  shalt  not 
Be  troubled :  I  but  stirred  thee  with  a  moral 
That's  empty, — contains  nothing.     I  am  well : 
See,  I  can  walk ;  poor  man,  thou  hast  not  strength  yet. 

{TTie  father  of  the  Admiral  makes  known  ike  condition  hit 
son  is  in  to  the  King.) 

Father.     King. 

King.  Say,  how  is  my  admiral  */ 
The  truth,  upon  thy  life. 

Fafh.  To  secure  his,  I  would  you  had. 

King.  Ha  !  who  durst  oppose  him  ? 

Fith.  One  that  hath  power  enough,  hath  practiced  on  him, 
And  made  his  great  heart  stoop. 


342  SANDEBS'    UNION    SERIES. 

King.  I  will  revenge  ii 
With  crushing,  crushing  that  rebellious  power 
To  nothing.     Name  him  1 

Fath.  He  was  his  friend. 

King.  What  mischief  hath  engendered 
New  storms  ? 

Fath.  'Tis  the  old  tempest 

King.  Did  not  we 
Appease  all  horrors  that  looked  wild  upon  him  ? 

Fath.  You  dressed  his  wounds,  I  must  confess,  but  made 
No  cure  ;  they  bleed  afresh  :  pardon  me,  sir ; 
Although  your  conscience  have  closed  too  soon, 
He  is  in  danger,  and  doth  want  new  surgery : 
Though  he  be  right  in  fame,  and  your  opinion, 
He  thinks  you  were  unkind. 

King.   Alas  !  poor  Chabot  I 
Doth  that  afflict  him  ? 

Fath.  So  much,  though  he  strive 
With  most  resolved  and  adamantine  nerves, 
As  ever  human  fire  in  flesh  and  blood 
Forged  for  example,  to  bear  all ;  so  killing 
The  arrows  that  you  shot,  were  (still,  your  pardon  I) 
No  Centaur's  blood  could  rankle  so. 

King.  If  this 
Be  all,  I'll  cure  him.     Kings  retain 
More  balsam  in  their  souls,  than  hurt  in  anger. 

Fath.   Far  short,  sir  j  with  one  breath  they  uncreate; 
And  kings,  with  only  words,  more  wounds  can  make 
Than  all  their  kingdom,  made  in  balm,  can  heal. 
'Tis  dangerous  to  play  too  wild  a  descant 
On  numerous  virtue ;  though  it  become  princes 
To  assure  their  adventures  made  in  everything. 
Goodness  confined  within  poor  flesh  and  blood, 
Hath  but  a  queasy  and  still  sickly  state ; 
A  musical  hand  should  only  play  on  her, 
F'uent  as  air,  yet  every  touch  coiimand. 

King.  No  more : 


RHETORICAL    READER.  84S 

Commend  us  to  the  admiral,  and  say 

The  king  will  visit  him,  and  bring  him  health. 

Fath.  I  will  not  doubt  that  blessing,  and  shall  move 
Nimbly  with  this  command. 

(^The  King  visits  the  Admiral.) 

King.     Admiral.     His  Wife  and  Father. 

King.  No  ceremonial  knees  : 
(3  ive  me  thy  heart,  my  dear,  my  honest  Chabot ; 
And  yet  in  vain  I  challenge  that ;  'tis  here 
Already  in  my  own,  and  shall  be  cherished 
With  care  of  my  best  life :  no  violence 
Shall  ravish  it  from  my  possession ; 
Not  those  distempers  that  infirm  my  blood 
And  spirits,  shall  betray  it  to  a  fear ; 
When  time  and  nature  join  to  dispossess 
My  body  of  a  cold  and  languishing  breath, — 
No  stroke  in  all  my  arteries,  but  silence 
In  every  faculty, — yet  dissect  me  then, 
And,  in  my  heart,  the  world  shall  read  thee  living; 
And,  by  the  virtue  of  thy  name  writ  there, 
That  part  of  me  shall  never  putrefy. 
When  I  am  lost  in  all  my  other  dust. 

Adm.  You  too  much  honor  your  poor  servant,  sir; 
My  heart  despairs  so  rich  a  monument. 
But  when  it  dies — 

King.  I  would  not  hear  a  sound 
Of  anything  that  trenched  upon  death. 
He  speaks  the  funeral  of  my  crown,  that  prophesies 
So  unkind  a  fate  :  we'll  live  and  die  together. 
And  by  that  duty,  which  hath  taught  you  hitherto 
,A11  loyal  and  just  services,  I  charge  thee. 
Preserve  thy  heart  for  me,  and  thy  reward 
Which  now  shall  crown  thy  merits. 

Adm.  I  have  found 
A  glorious  harvest  in  your  favor,  sir ; 
And,  by  this  ovei-flow  of  royal  grace, 


344  SANDERS'     UNION    SERIES. 

All  my  deserts  are  shadows  and  fly  from  me ; 
I  have  not  in  the  wealth  of  my  desires 
Enough  to  pay  you  now — 

King.  Express  it  in  some  joy,  then. 

Adm.  I  will  strive 
To  show  that  pious  gratitude  to  you,  but — 

King.  But  what? 

Adm.  My  frame  hath  lately,  sir,  been  ta*en  apieces. 
And  but  now  put  together ;  the  least  force 
Of  mirth  will  shake  and  unjoint  all  my  reason. 
Your  patience,  royal  sir. 

King.  I'll  have  no  patience, 
Tf  thou  forget  the  courage  of  a  man. 

Adm.  My  strength  would  flatter  me. 

King.  Physicians, 
Now  I  begin  to  fear  his  apprehension. 
Why,  how  is  Chabot's  spirit  fallen  ! 

Adm.  Who  would  not  wish  to  live  to  serve  your  goodneecj  f 
Stand  from  me.     You  betray  me  with  your  fears. 
The  plummets  may  fall  oflF  that  hang  upon 
My  heart;  they  were  but  thoughts  at  first;  or,  if 
They  weigh  me  down  to  death,  let  not  my  eyes 
Close  with  another  object  than  the  king. 

Ki7ig.  In  a  prince 
What  a  swift  executioner  is  a  frown, 
Especially,  of  great  and  noble  souls  1 
How  is  it  with  my  Philip  ? 

Adm.  I  must  beg 
One  other  boon. 

King,  Upon  condition 
My  Chabot  will  collect  his  scattered  spirits, 
And  be  himself  again,  he  shall  divide 
My  kingdom  with  me. 

Adm.  I  observe 
A  fierce  and  killing  wrath  engendered  in  you; 
For  my  sake,  as  you  wish  me  strength  to  serve  you, 
Forgive  your  chancellor ;  let  not  the  story 


RHETORICAL    READER.  tJttS 

Of  Philip  Chabot,  read  hereafter,  draw 
A  tear  from  any  family ;  I  beseech 
Your  royal  mercy  on  his  life,  and  free 
Remission  of  all  seizure  upon  his  state. 
I  have  no  comfort  else. 

King.  Endeavor 
]Jit  thy  own  health;  and  pronounce  general  pardon 
Td  al'  through  France. 

Adm.  Sir,  I  must  kneel  to  thank  you  ] 
It  is  not  sealed  else.     Your  blest  hand ;  live  happy, 
May  all  your  trust  have  no  less  faith  than  Chabot. 
Oh  !— 

Wife.  His  heart  is  broken. 

Father.  And  kneeling,  sir; 
As  his  ambition  were,  in  death,  to  show 
The  truth  of  his  obedience. 


EXERCISE  CI. 

Thomas  Babington  Macaxjlay  was  born  in  Leicester,  England,  October 
25th,  1800,  and  died  in  London,  December  28th,  1859.  His  career,  in  college, 
was  but  the  brilliant  harbinger  of  a  far  more  brilliant  one  in  the  world.  In 
1825  appeared  his  first  contribution  to  the  Edinburgh  Review,  with  which 
periodical  he  held  connection  for  twenty  years;  during  which  he  came  to  be 
universally  regarded  as  the  very  prince  of  essayists  :  showing  such  depth 
and  extent  of  research,  such  fullness  of  detail,  such  rare  felicity  of  illustration, 
such  singular  power  in  reproducing  the  past,  such  beauty  and  brilliancy  of 
style,  and  such  exhaustive  treatment  and  general  mastery  of  his  topics,  as 
utterly  eclipsed  the  glory  of  all  his  rivals  in  that  line  of  compositio  .  Fe  \\'a^ 
distinguished,  also,  as  a  statesman :  having  shown  himself,  in  aflfairs  of  state 
and  in  public  oflBce,  quite  equal  to  the  expectations  that  had  been  formed 
of  him  from  his  writings.  As  a  historian,  moreover,  he  acquired,  by  the 
publication  of  his  "  History  of  England  from  the  Accession  of  James  the 
Second,"  such  popularity  as  seldom  falls  to  the  lot  of  even  the  most  admired 
cf  novelists.  In  1857  he  was  made  a  peer  of  England,  with  the  title  of  Baron 
Macaulay,  of  Rothley. 

'  Jacobins  is  the  name  under  which  passed  the  most  famous  of  all  the 

political  clubs  that  agitated   France  during  the  first  Revolution.     In 

that  club,  consisting  of  all  the  violent  leaders  of  the  day,  were  discussed 

all  the  motions  and  questions  that  were  to  come  before  the  National 

15*  K 


346  SANDEES*     UNION     SERIES. 

Assembly;  so  that  the  Jacobin  Club,  which,  with  its  twelve  Ltmdred 
branches,  extended  all  over  France,  came,  at  last,  to  be  the  ruling  force 
in  the  nation.  What  was  the  character  of  that  rule,  the  following  vivid 
sketch  sufficiently  shows. 

THE  REIGN  OF  TERROR. 

HACAVLAT. 

1.  JNow  began  that  strange  period  known  by  the  name  of  the 
Reign  of  Terror.  The  Jacobins  *  had  prevailed.  This  was  their 
hour  and  the  power  of  darkness.  The  convention  was  sub- 
jugated, and  reduced  to  profound  silence  on  the  highest  ques- 
tions of  state.  The  sovereignty  passed  to  the  Committee  of 
Pubjic  Safety.  To  the  edicts  framed  by  that  Committee,  the 
representative  assembly  did  not  venture  to  offer  even  the  species 
of  opposition  which  the  ancient  Parliament  had  frequently 
offered  to  the  mandates  of  the  ancient  kings. 

2.  Then  came  those  days,  when  the  most  barbarous  of  all  codes 
was  administered  by  the  most  barbarous  of  all  tribunals ;  when 
no  man  could  greet  his  neighbors,  or  say  his  prayers,  or  dress 
his  hair,  without  danger  of  committing  a  capital  crime ;  when 
spies  lurked  in  every  corner;  when  the  guillotine*  was  long  and 
hard  at  work  every  morning;  when  the  jails  were  filled  as  close 
as  the  hold  of  a  slave  ship ;  and  the  gutters  ran  foaming  with 
blood  into  the  Seine. 

3.  No  mercy  was  shown  to  sex  or  age.  The  number  of  young 
lads  and  of  girls  of  seventeen  who  were  murdered  by  that 
execrable  government,  is  to  be  reckoned  by  hundreds.  Babies, 
torn  from  the  breast,  were  t-^ssed  from  pike  to  pike  along  the 
Jacobin  ranks.  One  champion  of  liberty  had  his  pockets  well 
stuffed  with  ears.  Another  swaggered  about  with  the  finger  of 
a  little  child  in  his  hat.  A  few  months  had  sufl&ced  to  degrade 
France  below  the  level  of  New  Zealand. 

4.  It  is  absurd  to  say,  that  any  amount  of  public  danger  can 
justify  a  system  like  this.  It  is  true  that  great  emergencies  call 
for  activity  and  vigilance ;  it  is  true  that  they  justify  severity 
which,  in  ordinary  times,  would  deserve  the  name  of  cruelty 

*  Guillotine  {giV  lo  teen),  a  machine  for  beheading  persons  at  a  single 
stroke ;  so  ca. 'ed,  it  is  said,  from  the  name  of  its  inventor. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  347 

But  indiscriminate  severity  can  never,  under  any  circumstances, 
be  useful.  It  is  plain  that  the  whole  efficacy  of  punishment 
depends  on  the  care  with  wnich  the  guilty  are  distinguished 
Punishment  which  strikes  the  guilty  and  the  innocent  promiscu- 
ous ly,  operates  merely  like  a  pestilence  or  a  great  convulsion  of 
naturs,  and  has  no  more  tendency  to  prevent  offenses,  than  the 
cholera  or  an  earthquake,  like  that  of  Lisbon,  would  have. 

5.  The  great  Queen  who  so  long  held  her  own  against  foreign 
and  domestic  enemies,  against  temporal  and  spiritual  arms ;  the 
great  Protector  who  governed  with  more  than  regal  power,  in 
despite  both  of  royalists  and  republicans ;  the  great  King  who, 
with  a  beaten  army  and  an  exhausted  treasury,  defended  his 
little  dominions  to  the  last  against  the  united  efforts  of  Russia, 
Austria,  and  France ;  with  what  scorn  would  they  have  heard 
that  it  was  impossible  for  them  to  strike  a  salutary  terror  into 
the  disaffected,  without  sending  school-boys  and  school-girls  to 
death  by  cart>loads  and  boat-loads  ! 

6.  To  behead  people  by  scores,  without  caring  whether  they 
are  guilty  or  innocent ;  to  wring  money  out  of  the  rich  by  the 
help  of  jailers  and  executioners;  to  rob  the  public  creditor,  and 
put  him  to  death,  if  he  remonstrates ;  to  take  loaves  by  force  out 
jf  the  bakers'  shops ;  to  clothe  and  mount  soldiers  by  seizing  on 
one  man's  wool  and  linen,  and  on  another  man's  horses  and 
saddles,  without  compensation,  is  of  all  modes  of  governing  the 
simplest  and  most  obvious.  Of  its  morality  we,  at  present,  say 
nothing.  But,  surely,  it  requires  no  capacity  beyond  that  of  a 
barbarian  or  a  child. 

7.  By  means  like  those  which  we  have  described,  the  Com- 
mittee of  Public  Safety  undoubtedly  succeeded,  for  a  short  time, 
in  enforcing  profound  submission,  and  in  raising  immense  funds. 
But  to  enforce  submission  by  butchery,  and  to  raise  funds  by 
spoliation,  is  not  statesmanship.  The  real  statesman  is  he  who, 
in  troubled  times,  keeps  down  the  turbulent  without  unnecessarily 
harassing  the  well-affected;  and  who,  when  great  pecuniary 
resources  are  needed,  provides  for  the  public  exigencies  without 
violating  the  security  of  property,  and  drying  up  the  sources  of 
future  prosperity. 


848  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES. 

EXERCISE  CIl. 
ULTIMATE  TRIUMPH  OF  PUBLIC  OPINION. 

WEB8TEB  • 

1.  The  PUBLIC  OPINION  of  the  civilized  world  is  rapidly 
gaining  an  ascendency  over  mere  brute  force.  It  may  be  silenced 
by  military  power,  but  it  cannot  be  conquered.  It  is  elastic, 
irrepressible,  and  invulnerable  to  the  weapons  of  ordinary  war- 
fare. It  is  that  impassible,  unextinguishable  enemy  of  mere 
violence  and  arbitrary  rule,  which,  like  Milton's  angels, 

•'Vital  in  every  part, 
Can  not,  but  by  annihilating,  die  I" 

2.  Until  this  be  propitiated  or  satisfied,  it  is  vain  for  power 
to  talk  of  triumphs  or  repose.  No  matter  what  fields  are  deso- 
lated, what  fortresses  surrendered,  what  armies  subdued,  or  what 
provinces  overrun.  In  the  history  of  the  year  that  has  passed 
by  us,  and  in  the  instance  of  unhappy  Spain,  we  have  seen  the 
vanity  of  all  triumphs  in  a  cause  which  violates  the  general 
sense  of  justice  of  the  civilized  world.  It  is  nothing  that  the 
troops  of  France  have  passed  from  the  Pyrenees  to  Cadiz ;  it  is 
nothing  that  an  unhappy  and  prostrate  nation  has  fallen  before 
them ;  it  is  nothing  that  arrests,  and  confiscation,  and  execution, 
sweep  away  the  little  remnant  of  national  resistance. 

3.  There  is  an  enemy  that  still  exists  to  check  the  glory  of 
these  triumphs.  It  follows  the  conqueror  back  to  the  very  scene 
of  his  ovations  j  it  calls  upon  him  to  take  notice  that  Europe, 
though  silent,  is  indignant;  it  shows  him  that  the  scepter  of 
his  victory  is  a  barren  scepter ;  that  it  shall  confer  neither  joy 
nor  honor,  but  shall  molder  to  dry  ashes  in  his  grasp.  In  the 
midst  of  his  exultation,  it  pierces  his  ear  with  the  cry  of  in- 
jured justice;  it  denounces  against  him  the  indignation  of  an 
enlightened  and  civilized  age ;  it  turns  to  bitterness  the  cup  of 
his  rejoicing,  and  wounds  him  with  the  sting  which  belongs  to 
the  consciousness  of  having  outraged  the  opinion  op  man- 
kind ! 


*  See  Exercise  LXXXVL 


RHETORICAL    READER.  849 


EXERCISE  cm. 

CharIjBS  Dickens  was  born  at  Portsmouth,  in  England,  February  7th, 
1812.  His  father  intended  him  for  the  legal  profession,  ani,  for  that  reason, 
kept  him  for  some  time  in  the  office  of  an  attorney.  But  he  found  far  more 
congenial  occupation  in  the  business  of  a  newspaper  critic  and  reporter. 
What  first  brought  him  into  notice  was  a  series  of  sketches  of  London  char- 
acter, in  the  lower  walks  of  life,  published  in  the  "  Morning  Chronicle," 
under  the  title  of  "  Boz."  Following  these,  and,  in  the  same  vein,  though 
with  a  far  wider  range  and  variety  of  resource,  came  the  celebrated  '*  Pick- 
wick Papers,"  which  gave  him  at  once  a  popularity  exceeding  that  of  any 
other  living  writer.  These  papers  discovered  such  genial  humor,  such  genuine 
wit,  such  graphic  description,  such  felicity  of  expression,  and,  withal,  such 
pathos,  everywhere  mingled  with  comic  scenes  and  circumstances,  that,  in 
spite  of  certain  defects  prominent  enough  to  artistic  eyes,  his  sway  over  the 
reader  was  perfectly  absolute.  Mr.  Dickens  has  written  much  since,  and 
secured  for  himself  a  permanent  place  in  the  temple  of  fame. 

In  the  following  scene,  Mr.  Pickwick,  an  amiable,  unsophisticated  gentle- 
man, is  presented  in  the  unlucky  circumstances  which  afterwards  led,  in  the 
main,  to  a  trial  for  a  breach  of  promise  of  marriage,  in  a  suit  brought  by 
Mrs.  Bardell. 

SCENE  FROM  PICKWICK :— MR.  PICKWICK'S  DILEMMA. 

CHARLES   DICKENS. 

1.  Mr.  Pickwick's  apartments  on  Goswell  street,  although  on 
a  limited  scale,  were  not  only  of  a  very  neat  and  comfortable 
description,  but  peculiarly  adapted  for  the  residence  of  a  man 
of  his  genius  and  observation.  His  sitting-room  was  the  first 
floor  front,  his  bed-room  the  second  floor  front;  and  thus,  whether 
he  were  sitting  at  his  desk  in  the  pai-lor,  (t  standing  before  the 
dressing-glass  in  his  dormitory,  he  had  an  equal  opportunity  of 
contemplating  human  nature  in  all  the  numerous  phases  it 
exhibits,  in  that  not  more  populous  than  popular  thoroughfare. 

2.  His  landlady,  Mrs.  Bardell — the  relict  and  sole  executrix  of 
a  deceased  custom-house  ofiicer — was  a  comely  woman  of  bustling 
manners  and  agreeable  appearance,  with  a  natural  genius  for 
cooking,  improved  by  study  and  long  practice  into  an  exquisite 
talent.  There  were  no  children,  no  servants,  no  fowls.  The 
only  other  inmates  of  the  house  were  a  large  man  and  a  small 
boy — the  first  a  lodger^  the  second  a  son  of  Mrs.  Bardell.  The 
large  man  was  always  at  home  precisely  at  ten  o'clock  at  night, 
at  which  hour  he  regularly  condensed   himself  into  the  limita 


850 


SANDERS'     UNION     SERIES. 


of  a  dwarfish  Freuch  bedstead  in  the  back  parlor;  and  the 
infantine  Sports  and  gymnastic  exercises  of  Master  Bardell  were 
exclusively  confined  to  the  neighboring  pavements  and  gutters. 
Cleanliness  and  quiet  reigned  throughout  the  house ;  and  in  it 
Mr.  Pickwick's  will  was  law. 

3.  To  any  one  acquainted  with  these  points  of  the  donr.estic 
economy  of  the  establishment,  and  conversant  with  the  admirable 
regulation  of  Mr.  Pickwick's  mind,  his  appearance  and  behavior, 
on  the  morning  previous  to  that  which  had  been  fixed  upon  for 
the  journey  to  Eatanswill,  would  have  been  most  mysterious  and 
01  accountable.  He  paced  the  room  to  and  fro  with  hurried 
steps,  popped  his  head  out  of  the  window  at  intervals  of  about 
three  minutes  each,  constantly  referred  to  his  watch,  and  exhib- 
ited many  other  manifestations  of  impatience,  very  unusual  with 
him.  It  was  evident  that  something  of  great  importance  was  in 
contemplation,  but  what  that  something  was,  not  even  Mrf. 
Bardell  herself  had  been  enabled  to  discover. 

4.  "  Mrs.  Bardell,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  at  last,  as  that  amiable 
female  approached  the  termination  of  a  prolonged  dusting  of  the 
apartment. 

"  Sir,"  said  Mrs.  Bardell. 

"  Your  little  boy  is  a  very  long  time  ;.one." 

"  Why,  it's  a  good  long  way  to  the  Borough,  sir,"  remonstrated 
Mrs.  Bardell. 

"  Ah,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  "  very  true ;  so  it  is." 

Mr.  Pickwick  relapsed  into  silence,  and  Mrs.  Bardell  resumed 
her  dusting. 

"  Mrs.  Bardell,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  at  the  expiration  of  a 
few  minutes. 

"  Sir,"  said  Mrs.  Bardell  again. 

"  Do  you  think  it's  a  much  greater  expense  to  keep  two  people, 
than  to  keep  one  ?" 

"  La,  Mr.  Pickwick,"  said  Mrs.  Bardell,  coloring  up  to  the 
very  border  of  her  cap,  as  she  fancied  she  observed  a  species  of 
matrimonial  twinkle  in  the  eyes  of  her  lodger ;  "  La,  Mr.  Pick- 
wick, what  a  question  !" 

5.  "Well,  but  do  you?"  inquired  Mr.  Pickwick. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  351 

*<That  dcf«'ntiH/' said  Mrs.  Bardell,  approaching  the  duster 
very  neai  to  Mr,  Pickwick's  elbow,  which  was  planted  on  the 
table;  "  ihat  depends  a  good  deal  upon  the  person,  vou  know, 
Mr.  Pickwick;  and  whether  it's  a  saving  and  careful  person, 
sir." 

"That's  very  true,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick;  "but  the  person  I 
have  in  my  eye  (here  he  looked  very  hard  at  Mrs.  Bardell)  I 
think  possesses  these  qualities ;  and  has,  moreover,  a  considerable 
knowledge  of  the  world,  and  a  great  deal  of  sharpness,  Mrs. 
Bardell ;  which  may  be  of  material  use  to  me." 

6.  "  La,  Mr.  Pickwick,"  said  Mrs.  Bardell;  the  crimson  rising 
to  her  cap-border  again. 

"  I  do,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  growing  energetic,  as  was  his 
wont  in  speaking  of  a  subject  which  interested  him.  "  I  do, 
indeed;  and  to  tell  you  the  truth,  Mrs.  Bardell,  I  have  made  up 
my  mind." 

"  Dear  me,  sir,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Bardell. 

"  You'll  think  it  not  very  strange  now,"  said  the  amiable  Mr. 
Pickwick,  with  a  good-humored  glance  at  his  companion,  "  that 
I  never  consulted  you  about  this  matter,  and  never  mentione<^ 
it,  till  I  sent  your  little  boy  out  this  morning — eh  ?" 

7.  Mrs.  Bardell  could  only  reply  by  a  look.  She  had  long 
worshiped  Mr.  Pickwick  at  a  distance,  but  here  she  was,  all  at 
once,  raised  to  a  pinnacle  to  which  her  wildest  and  most  extrava- 
gant hopes  had  never  dared  to  aspire.  Mr.  Pickwick  was  going 
to  propose — a  deliberate  plan,  too — sent  her  little  boy  to  the 
Borough,  to  get  him  out  of  the  way  —  how  thoughtful — how 
considerate  ! 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  "what  do  you  think?" 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Pickwick,"  said  Mrs.  Bardell,  trembling  with 
agitation,  "  you're  very  kind,  sir." 

"It'll  save  you  a  good  deal  of  trouble,  won't  it?"  said  Mr. 
Pickwick. 

"  Oh,  I  never  thought  anything  of  the  trouble,  sir,'^  replied 
Mrs.  Bardell ;  "  and,  of  course,  I  should  take  more  trouble  to 
please  you  then  than  ever ;  but  it  is  so  kind  of  you,  Mr  PicV 
wick,  to  have  so  much  consideration  for  my  loneliness." 


852  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES. 

8.  "  Ah,  to  be  sure,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick  j  "  I  never  thought 
of  that.  When  I  am  in  town,  you'll  always  have  somebody  to 
3it  with  you.     To  be  sure,  so  you  will." 

"  I'm  sure  I  ought  to  be  a  very  happy  woman,"  said  Mrs. 
Bardell. 

"  And  your  little  boy" — said  Mr.  Pickwick. 

"Bless  his  heart,"  interposed  Mrs.  Bardell,  with  a  maternal 
pob. 

"  He,  too,  will  have  a  companion,"  resumed  Mr.  Pickwick ; 
**  a  lively  one,  who'll  teach  him,  I'll  be  bound,  more  tricks  in  a 
week,  than  he  would  ever  learn  in  a  year."  And  Mr.  Pickwick 
smiled  placidly. 

"  Oh,  you  dear" — said  Mrs.  Bardell. 

Mr.  Pickwick  started. 

9.  "  Oh,  you  kind,  good,  playful  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Bardell; 
and,  without  more  ado,  she  rose  from  her  chair,  and  flung  her 
arms  round  Mr.  Pickwick's  neck,  with  a  cataract  of  tears,  and 
a  chorus  of  sobs. 

"  Bless  my  soul,"  cried  the  astonished  Mr.  Pickwick;  "  Mrs. 
Bardell,  my  good  woman — dear  me,  what  a  situation — pray  con- 
sider.    Mrs.  Bardell,  don't — if  anybody  should  come" — 

"Oh,  let  them  come,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Bardell,  frantically; 
"  I'll  never  leave  you — dear,  kind,  good  soul;"  and,  with  these 
words,  Mrs.  Bardell  clung  the  tighter. 

"  Mercy  upon  me,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  struggling  violently; 
"  I  hear  somebody  coming  up  the  stairs.  Don't,  don't,  there's 
a  good  creature,  don't."  But  entreaty  and  remonstrance  were 
alike  unavailing ;  for  Mrs.  Bardell  had  fainted  in  Mr.  Pickwick's 
arms;  and  before  he  could  gain  time  to  deposit  her  on  a  chair, 
Master  Bardell  entered  the  room,  ushering  in  Mr.  Tupman,  Mr. 
Winkle,  and  Mr.  Snodgrass. 

10.  Mr.  Pickwick  was  struck  motionless  and  speechless.  He 
stood  with  his  lovely  burden  in  his  arms,  gazing  vacantly  on  the 
countenances  of  his  friends,  without  the  slightest  attempt  at 
recognition  or  explanation.  They,  in  their  turn,  stared  at  him; 
and  Master  Bardell,  in  his  turn,  stared  at  everybody. 

The  astonishment  of  the  Pickwick ians  was  so  absorbing,  and 


RHETORICAL    READER.  353 

the  perplexity  of  Mr.  Pickwick  was  so  extreme,  tbat  they  might 
have  remained  in  exactly  the  same  relative  situations  until  the 
suspended  animation  of  the  lady  was  restored,  had  it  not  been 
for  a  most  beautiful  and  touching  expression  of  filial  affection  on 
the  part  of  her  youthful  son. 

11.  Clad  in  a  tight  suit  of  corduroy,  spangled  with  brass  but- 
tons of  a  very  considerable  size,  he,  at  first,  stood  at  the  door 
astounded  and  uncertain ;  but,  by  degrees,  the  impression  that 
his  mother  must  have  suffered  some  personal  damage,  pervaded 
his  partially  developed  mind,  and,  considering  Mr.  Pickwick  as 
the  aggressor,  he  set  up  an  appalling  and  semi-earthly  kind  of 
howling,  and  butting  forward  with  his  head,  commenced  assailing 
that  immortal  gentleman  about  the  back  and  legs,  with  such 
blows  and  pinches  as  the  strength  of  his  arm,  and  the  violence 
of  his  excitement,  allowed. 

12.  "  Take  this  little  villain  away,"  said  the  agonized  Mr 
Pickwick ;  *'  he's  mad." 

"  What  U  the  matter  ?"  said  the  three  tongue-tied  Pickwick- 
ians. 

"  I  don't  know,"  replied  Mr.  Pickwick,  pettishly.  "  Take 
away  the  boy — (here  Mr.  Winkle  carried  the  interesting  boy, 
screaming  and  struggling,  to  the  farther  end  of  the  apartment.) 
Now  help  me  to  lead  this  woman  down  stairs." 

"  Oh,  I  am  better  now,"  said  Mrs.  Bardell,  faintly. 

"  Let  me  lead  you  down  stairs,"  said  the  ever-gallant  Mr. 
lupman. 

"  Thank  you,  sir — thank  you,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Bardell,  hys- 
terically. And  down  stairs  she  was  led  accordingly,  accompanied 
by  her  affectionate  son. 

13.  "I  cannot  conceive" — said  Mr.  Pickwick,  when  his  friend 
returned — "  I  cannot  conceive  what  has  been  the  matter  with 
that  woman.  I  had  merely  announced  to  her  my  intention  of 
keeping  a  man-servant,  when  she  fell  into  the  extraordinary 
paroxysm  in  which  you  found  her.     Very  extraordinary  thing." 

"Very,"  said  his  three  friends. 

"  Placed  me  in  such  an  extremely  awkward  situation,"  con- 
fcinuid  Mr.  Pickwick. 

Z 


354  SANDERS'     UNION     SERIES. 

"  Very,"  was  the  reply  of  his  followers,  as  they  coughed 
slightly,  aud  looked  dubiously  at  each  other. 


EXERCISE  CIV. 

A  irial,  growing  mainly  out  of  the  transactions  recorded  in  the  preceding 
Bxerjise,  is  here  in  progress,  and  Mr.  Pickwick's  servant,  Sam  Weller,  a  yery 
humorous  and  eccentric  person,  is  on  the  stand,  as  a  witness. 

ANOTHER  SCENE  FROM  PICKWICK :— SAM  WELLER  AS  A 
WITNESS. 


**  What's  your  name,  sir  ?"  inquired  the  judge. 

'*  Sam  Weller,  my  lord,"  replied  that  gentleman. 

"  Do  you  spell  it  with  a  '  V  or  a  '  W  ?'  "  inquired  the  judge 

"That  depends  upon  the  taste  and  fancy  of  the 'speller,  my 
lord,"  replied  Sam ;  "I  never  had  occasion  to  spell  it  more  than 
once  or  twice  in  my  life,  but  I  spells  it  with  a  '  V.' 

Here  a  voice  in  the  gallery  exclaimed  aloud, — "  Quite  right, 
too,  Samivel ;  quite  right.  Put  it  down  a  we,  my  lord,  put  it 
down  a  we." 

"  Who  is  that  that  dares  to  address  the  court?"  said  the  little 
judge  looking  up ; — "  Usher  I" 

"  Yes,  my  lord  !" 

"  Bring  that  person  here  instantly." 

"  Yes,  my  lord." 

But,  as  the  usher  didn't ^wc?  the  person,  he  didn^t  hrin^  him; 
and,  after  a  great  commotion,  all  the  people  who  had  got  ap  to 
look  for  the  culprit,  sat  down  again.  The  little  judge  turned  to 
the  witness  as  soon  as  his  indignation  would  allow  him  to  speak, 
and  said — 

"  Do  you  know  who  that  was,  sir  ?" 
'    "  I  rather  suspect  it  was  my  father,  my  lord,"  replied  Sam. 
-    "  Do  you  see  him  here  now  ?"  said  the  judge. 


RHETORICAL    READER. 


355 


"No,  I  don't,  my  lord,"  replied  Sara,  staring  right  up  into 
the  lantern  in  the  roof  of  the  court. 

"  If  you  could  have  pointed  him  out,  I  would  have  committed 
him  instantly,"  said  the  judge.  Sam  bowed  his  acknowledg- 
ments, and  turned  with  unimpaired  cheerfulness  of  countenance 
towards  Sergeant  Buzfuz. 

"  Now,  Mr.  Weller,"  said  Sergeant  Buzfuz. 

**  Now,  sir,"  replied  Sam. 

"  T  believe  you  are  in  the  service  of  Mr.  Pickwick,  the  de- 
fendant in  this  case.     Speak  up,  if  you  please,  Mr.  Weller." 

"  I  mean  to  speak  up,  sir,"  replied  Sam.  "  I  am  in  the  ser- 
vice o'  that  'ere  gen'Tman,  and  a  wery  good  service  it  is." 

"  Little  to  do,  and  plenty  to  get,  I  suppose  ?"  said  Sergeant 
Buzfuz,  with  jocularity. 

"  Oh,  quite  enough  to  get,  sir,  as  the  soldier  said  ven  they 
ordered  him  three  hundred  and  fifty  lashes,"  replied  Sam. 

"  You  must  not  tell  us  what  the  soldier  or  any  other  man 
said,  sir,"  interposed  the  judge ;  "  it's  not  evidence." 

"  Wery  good,  my  lord,"  replied  Sam. 

"  Do  you  recollect  anything  particular  happening  on  the  morn- 
ing when  you  were  first  engaged  by  the  defendant,  eh,  Mr. 
Weller?"  said  Sergeant  Buzfuz. 

"  Yes  I  do,  sir,"  replied  Sam. 

"  Have  the  goodness  to  tell  the  jury  what  it  was." 

"I  had  a  reg'lar  new  fit  out  o'  clothes  that  mornin',  gen'l'men 
of  the  jury,"  said  Sam,  "  and  that  was  a  wery  particler  and  un- 
common circumstance  vith  me  in  those  days." 

Hereupon  there  was  a  general  laugh ;  and  the  little  judge, 
looking  with  an  angry  countenance  over  his  desk,  said, — "You 
had  better  be  careful,  sir." 

"  So  Mr.  Pickwick  said  at  the  time,  my  lord,"  replied  Sam, 
''  and  I  was  wery  careful  o'  that  'ere  suit  o'  clothes ;  wery  care- 
ful, indeed,  my  lord." 

The  judge  looked  sternly  at  Sam  for  full  two  minutes,  but 
Sam's  features  were  so  perfectly  calm  and  serene  that  he  said 
Dothing,  and  motioned  Sergeant  Buzfuz  to  proceed. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,  Mr.  Weller,"  said  Sergeant  Buzfuz, 


356  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES. 

folding  his  arms  emphatically,  and  turning  half  round  to  the 
jury,  as  if  in  mute  assurance  he  would  bother  the  witness  yet 
— "  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,  Mr.  Weller,  that  you  saw  notl  ing 
of  this  fainting  on  the  part  of  the  plaintiff  in  the  arms  of  the 
defendant,  which  you  have  heard  described  by  the  witnesses  V 

"  Certainly  not,"  replied  Sam.  "  I  was  in  the  passage  till 
they  called  me  up,  and  then  the  old  lady  was  not  there." 

"  Now  attend,  Mr.  Weller,''  said  Sergeant  Buzfuz,  dipping  a 
large  pen  into  the  inkstand  before  him,  for  the  purpose  of 
frightening  Sam  with  a  show  of  taking  down  his  answer,  "  you 
were  in  the  passage  and  yet  saw  nothing  of  what  was  going 
forward.     Have  you  a  pair  of  eyes,  Mr.  Weller  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  have  a  pair  of  eyes,"  replied  Sam,  "and  that's  just 
it.  If  they  wos  a  pair  o'  patent  double  million  magnifyin'  gas 
microscopes  of  hextra  power,  p'raps  I  might  be  able  to  see 
through  a  flight  o'  stairs  and  a  deal  door  j  but  bein'  only  eyes, 
you  see,  my  wision's  limited." 

At  this  answer,  which  was  delivered  without  the  slightest 
appearance  of  irritation,  and  with  the  most  complete  simplicity 
and  equanimity  of  manner,  the  spectators  tittered,  the  little 
judge  smiled,  and  Sergeant  Buzfuz  looked  particularly  foolish. 
After  a  short  consultation  with  Dodson  and  Fogg,  the  learned 
sergeant  again  turned  to  Sam,  and  said,  with  a  painful  effort  to 
conceal  his  vexation, — "  Now,  Mr.  Weller,  I'll  ask  you  a  question 
on  another  point,  if  you  please." 

"  If  you  please,  sir,"  rejoined  Sam,  with  the  utmost  good 
humor. 

"  Do  you  remember  going  up  to  Mrs.  Bardell's  house,  one 
night  in  November  last  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes  ]  wery  well." 

"Oh,  you  do  remember  that,  Mr.  Weller,"  said  Sergeant 
Buzfuz,  recovering  his  spirits,  "  I  thought  we  should  get  at 
something  at  last." 

"I  rather  thought  that,  too,  sir,"  replied  Sam;  and  at  this 
the  spectators  tittered  again. 

''  Well ;  I  suppose  you  went  up  to  have  a  little  talk  about  thia 


RHETORICAL    READER.  357 

trial— ch,  Mr.  Weller?"  said  Sergeant  Buzfuz,  looking  kuow* 
ingly  at  the  jury. 

"  1  went  up  to  pay  the  rent;  but  we  did  get  a  talking  about 
the  trial  "  replied  Sam. 

"  Oh^  you  did  get  a  talking  about  the  trial,"  said  Sergeant 
Buzfuz,  brightening  up  with  the  anticipation  of  some  important 
discovery.  "Now  what  passed  about  the  trial;  will  you  have 
Uie  goodnes?  to  tell  us,  Mr.  Weller  ?" 

"  Vith  all  the  pleasure  in  my  life,  sir,"  replied  Sam.  "  Arter 
a  few  unimportant  observations  from  the  two  wirtuous  females 
as  has  been  examined  here  to-day,  the  ladies  gets  into  a  wery 
great  state  o'  admiration  at  the  honorable  conduct  of  Mr.  Dodson 
and  Fogg — them  two  gen'l'men  'aa  is  sittin*  near  you  now." 
This,  of  course,  drew  general  attention  to  Dodson  and  Fogg, 
who  looked  as  virtuous  as  possible. 

"  The  attorneys  for  the  plaintiflp,"  said  Mr.  Sergeant  Buzfuz; 
*'  well,  they  spoke  in  high  praise  of  the  honorable  conduct  of 
Messrs.  Dodson  and  Fogg,  the  attorneys  for  the  plaintiff,  did 
they?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Sam ;  "  they  said  what  a  wery  generous  thing  it 
was  o'  them  to  have  taken  up  the  case  on  spec,  and  to  charge 
nothin'  at  all  for  costs,  unless  they  got  'em  out  of  Mr.  Pick- 
wick." 

At  this  very  unexpected  reply,  the  spectators  tittered  again, 
and  Dodson  and  Fogg,  turning  very  red,  leaned  over  to  Sergeant 
Buzfuz,  and  in  a  hurried  manner  whispered  something  ip 
his  ear. 

"  You  are  quite  right,"  said  Sergeant  Buzfuz  aloud,  with 
affected  composure.  "  It's  perfectly  useless,  my  lord,  attempting 
to  get  at  any  evidence  through  the  impenetrable  stupidity  of  this 
ivitness.  I  will  not  trouble  the  court  by  asking  him  any  more 
questions.     Stand  down,  sir." 

"Would  any  other  gen'l'man  like  to  ask  me  any  thin' ?"  in- 
quired Sam,  taking  up  his  hat,  and  looking  round  most  deli- 
berately. 

"Not  I,  Mr.  Wellei,  thank  you,"  said  Sergeant  Snubbin, 
laughing. 


558  SANDERS'     UNION     SERIES. 

"  You  may  go  down,  sir,"  said  Sergeant  Buzfuz,  waving  his 
hand  impatiently.  Sam  went  down  accordingly,  after  doing 
Messrs.  Dodson  and  Fogg's  case  as  much  harm  as  he  conve- 
niently could,  and  saying  just  as  little  respecting  Mr.  Pickwick 
as  might  be,  which  waa  precisely  the  object  he  had  in  view  all 
along. 


EXERCISE  CV. 

Park  Bevjamin  was  bom  August  14th,  1809,  at  Demarara,  in  British 
Guiana,  where,  at  that  time,  his  father  was  a  merchant.  He,  however,  was 
sent  home  to  New  England,  to  be  educated.  After  graduating,  in  1829,  at 
Trinity  College,  Hartford,  he  studied  law :  but,  law  being  less  to  his  taste 
than  letters,  he  has  spent  most  of  his  life  in  literary  labors.  He  is  an  ahht 
and  interesting  lecturer,  and  a  writer  of  no  ordinary  merit. 

THE  BLIND  BOY'S  SPEECH. 

FABK  BENJAIOM. 
I. 

Think  not  that  blindness  makes  me  sad, 
My  thoughts,  like  yours,  are  often  glad. 
Parents  I  have,  who  love  me  well, 
Their  diflferent  voices  I  can  tell. 
Though  far  away  from  them,  I  hear, 
In  dreams,  their  music  meet  my  ear. 
Is  there  a  star  so  dear  above 
As  the  low  voice  of  one  you  love  ? 

II. 

I  never  saw  my  father's  face, 
Yet  on  his  forehead  when  I  place 
My  hand,  and  feel  the  wrinkles  there, 
Left  less  by  time  than  anxious  care, 
I  fear  the  world  has  sights  of  woe, 
To  knit  the  brows  of  manhood  so, — 
T  sit  upon  my  father's  knee : 
He'd  love  me  less,  if  I  could  see. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  366 

III. 

I  never  saw  my  mother  smile . 
Her  gentle  tones  my  heart  beguile. 
They  fall  like  distant  melody, — 
They  are  so  mild  and  sweet  to  me. 
She  murmurs  not — my  mother  dear ! 
Though  sometimes  I  have  kissed  the  teai 
From  her  soft  cheek,  to  tell  the  joy 
One  smiling  word  would  give  her  boy. 

TV. 

Right  merry  was  I  every  day  ! 

Fearless  to  run  about  and  play 

With  sisters,  brothers,  friends,  and  all,— 

To  answer  to  their  sudden  call, 

To  join  the  ring,  to  speed  the  chase, 

To  find  each  playmate's  hidipg-place, 

And  pass  my  hand  across  his  brow, 

To  tell  him  I  could  do  it  now  I 

V. 

Yet,  though  delightful  flew  the  hours, 
So  passed  in  childhood's  peaceful  bowers, 
When  all  were  gone  to  school  but  I, 
I  used  to  sit  at  home  and  sigh ; 
And,  though  I  never  longed  to  view 
The  earth  so  green,  the  sky  so  blue, 
I  thought  I'd  give  the  world  to  look 
Along  the  pages  of  a  book. 

VI. 

Now,  since  I've  learned  to  read  and  write 
My  heart  is  filled  with  new  delight ; 
And  music  too, — can  there  be  found 
A  sifijht  so  beautiful  as  sound  f 


360  SANDERS'     UNION    SERIES. 

Tell  me,  kind  friends,  in  one  short  word. 
Am  I  not  like  a  captive  bird  ? 
I  live  in  song,  and  peace,  and  joy, — 
Though  blind,  a  merry-hearted  boy  I 


EXERCISE  CVI. 

GaoReE  Denisow  Prentice,  the  distinguished  editor  of  the  "Louisville 
Journal,"  was  born  in  Preston,  Connecticut,  December  18th,  1802.  After 
graduating  at  Brown  University  in  Rhode  Island,  which  he  did  in  1823,  he 
studied  law,  but  never  entered  upon  the  duties  of  the  profession ;  choosing 
rather  those  of  an  editor.  In  1831,  having  taken  up  his  abode  in  Louisville, 
Kentucky,  he  became  editor  of  the  "  Louisville  Journal ;"  which  position  he 
still  holds  J  having  gained  therein  what  most  richly  he  deserves,  a  high 
reputation  for  wit,  as  a  writer,  and  for  ability  and  steady  patriotism,  as  a 
politician.     The  following  is  from  the  columns  of  his  Journal. 

DUTY  OF  THE  GOVJJRNMENT  IN  THE  PRESENT  CRISIS. 

GEO.   D.   PRENTICB, 

1.  The  policy  of  accepting  peace,  on  the  condition  of  recogniz- 
ing the  independence  of  the  Southern  Confederacy,  would  be  a 
terrible  one.  Nay,  it  would  be  a  policy  that  we  but  feebly 
characterize  by  the  word  terrible.  It  would  be  the  death,  the 
everlastinor  death,  of  the  great  and  glorious  hope  that  now  lives 
in  the  hearts  of  tens  of  millions  upon  this  continent  and  hun- 
dreds of  millions  throughout  the  civilized  world.  It  would  be 
the  destruction  of  the  mightiest  work  that  the  spirit  of  freedom 
has  ever  done  upon  the  earth.  What  has  been  the  admiration 
and  the  wonder  of  the  nations,  would  be  their  pity  and  their 
scorn. 

2.  Let  no  one  delude  himself  with  the  thought  or  fancy  that 
a  government,  a  nation,  has  not  a  right  to  defend  itself,  by  all 
tl:e  powers  and  energies  at  its  command,  against  disruption  and 
dissolution.  To  do  this  is,  as  a  general  truth,  among  a  nation's 
most  sacred  rights  and  its  highest  and  most  solemn  duties.  The 
nation  that  should  not  recognize  and  assert  the  right  and  the 
duty  would  be  the  object  of  all  mankind's  contempt.     Surely  no 


RHETORICAL    READER.  361 

human  being  supposes  that  England,  or  France,  or  Spain,  or 
Austria,  or  Kussia,  if  a  portion,  even  a  majority,  of  a  section  of 
either  of  those  kingdoms  or  empires,  should  assert  the  right  of 
erecting  their  section  into  an  independent  realm,  would  permit 
the  right,  thus  claimed,  to  be  practically  asserted. 

3.  It  is  absurd  to  suppose  that  either  of  them,  upon  any  claim 
of  a  portion  of  their  people  to  the  right  of  self-government,  would 
submit  to  dismemberment,  submit  to  be  divided  into  two  king- 
doms or  empires.  Sooner  would  they  wage  a  war  of  centuries, 
a  war,  as  they  would  justly  consider  it,  of  national  life  or  death. 

4.  To  submit  to  the  separation  of  the  United  States  into  two 
independent  powers,  would  not  only  be  the  most  fatal  example 
that  we  could  set  for  the  existing  generation  of  men,  and  to  all 
generations  that  are  to  come  after  us,  but  would  render  the 
whole  area  of  the  thirty-four  states  one  of  the  feeblest  and  most 
wretched  portions  of  the  civilized  world.  All  our  old  glory 
would  be  turned  to  midnight  darkness.  The  two  republics,  or 
two  monarchies,  supposing  that  to  be  the  number  into  which  our 
country  should  at  first  be  divided,  could  never  remain  for  even 
one  year  at  peace.  A  thousand  causes  would  render  collisions 
and  wars  between  them  inevitable.  Neither  of  the  two  could 
have  the  least  security  against  its  own  disintegration  and  dis- 
solution. 

5.  The  United  States  government  at  Washington,  having 
established  the  precedent  of  permitting  eleven  or  twelve  or 
fifteen  states  to  go  ofi"  at  pleasure,  could  not  restrain  other  states 
from  doing  the  same  thing.  Each  and  every  state,  remaining 
even  temporarily  in  the  United  States,  would  feel  that  it  had  the 
power  to  assert  and  maintain  its  right  of  either  seceding  into  the 
Southern  Confederacy,  or  of  establishing,  together  with  such 
other  states  as  it  might  be  able  to  carry  with  it,  an  independent 
sovereignty,  and  it  would  exercise  this  fancied  right  whenever, 
for  any  cause,  frivolous  or  otherwise,  it  should  become  dissatisfied 
with  the  acts  of  the  government  of  its  section.  What  is  now  the 
United  States,  as  distinguished  from  the  Confederate  States, 
would  almost  certainly,  within  half  a  dozen  years,  consist  of  half 
a  dozen  petty  and  jarring  powers,  with  no  common  head 

16  6R 


862  SANDSSS'     UNION    SERIES. 

6.  The  same,  or  even  worse,  would  be  the  condition  of  the 
states  of  the  Southern  Confederacy,  based,  as  that  confederacy 
avowedly  is,  and  would  be,  upon  the  assumption,  as  a  funda- 
mental principle  of  government,  that  every  state,  or  every  two  or 
three  states,  must  ever  be  recognized  as  having  the  right  to 
establish  an  independent  government  or  independent  govern- 
ments at  will.  There  would  be  no  government  in  either  section 
fit  to  be  called  one.  Our  country,  that  we  have  been  so  proud 
of,  would  be  in  a  worse  condition  than  the  miserable  little  repub- 
lics of  South  America. 

7.  No  pretended  sovereignty,  north  or  south,  could  ever  obtain 
from  abroad  a  loan  of  even  the  most  inconsiderable  amount;  for 
European  nations  would  scorn  to  intrust  their  money  to  govern- 
ments not  even  claiming  to  embody  any  principle  of  self-preser- 
vation. The  powers  which  have  not  dared  to  provoke  the  war- 
like energies  of  earth's  great  repubHc,  would  deride  us  in  oui 
helplessness,  and,  by  the  presence  of  even  a  single  man-of-war, 
compel  us  to  yield  obedience  to  their  haughty  and  tyrannical 
dictation.  Horrible  servile  insurrections  would  break  out  every- 
where in  the  slaveholding  region,  making  fields  and  firesides 
desolate. 

8.  Masses  of  slaves,  first  from  the  slave  states  nearest  to  the 
free  states,  and  afterward  from  those  more  remote,  would  escape 
— some  by  stealth  and  others  openly — till  the  last  vestige  of 
slavery  would  disappear.  All  the  petty  powers,  jealous  and 
hostile,  would  have  to  keep  standing  armies,  vast  in  proportion 
to  the  means  of  supporting  them,  and  the  consequent  taxes  would 
impoverish  the  people  to  the  point  of  hopeless  and  irretrievable 
ruin.  Hundreds  and  thousands  of  desperate  men,  accustomed  to 
blood  and  violence,  and  having  no  means  of  honest  subsistenco 
for  themselves  and  families,  would  organize  gangs  of  banditti, 
such  as  for  years  have  infested  Mexico. 

9.  But  this  condition  of  anarchy*  or  half-anarchy  could  no* 

*  An'akcht  Is  compounded  of  an  [without]  and  archy  (rule),  an 
means  without  rule  or  government;  political  confusion.     For  a  numbe, 
of  words  containing  the  radical  form  archy,  see  Sanders'  and  McElligott' 
Analysis  of  English  Words,  Exercises  XXXII.  and  CCXXX 


EHEToRfCAL    READER.  36J1 

last  forever,  or  even  very  long.  From  the  midst  of  all  the  son- 
fusion  and  lawlessness  and  strife,  some  bold  master-spirit  would 
spring  up,  and,  rallying  thousands  to  his  standard,  pursue  his 
conquering  and  devastating  march  until  the  whole  of  what  has 
been  the  United  States,  would  be  made  a  bloody  and  relentless 
despotism,  as  drear  and  remorseless  as  any  one  recorded  ir 
history. 

10.  And  now  the  question  is,  whether  the  Unitea  States 
through  a  dread  of  the  inconveniences  and  even  the  great  suffer- 
ings and  sacrifices  of  the  war  that  is  upon  us,  ought  to  accept 
this  condition  of  things  for  the  sake  of  a  brief,  a  hollow,  a 
nominal  peace.  To  our  minds  it  would  be  a  dreadful  crime 
against  God  and  the  human  race.  It  would  mark  the  present 
generation  of  the  people  of  this  country,  as  the  guiltiest  enemies 
and  murderers  of  freedom  in  all  the  history  of  the  world. 

11.  Our  glorious  old  fathers  of  '76  bequeathed  not  more  to 
us  than  to  the  generation  that  are  to  Cvme  hereafter — their 
posterity  as  well  as  ours-^the  great  and  magnificent  inheritance 
of  the  Union.  Our  fathers  of  later  periods  received,  guarded, 
transmitted,  the  sacred,  the  magnificent  bequest  to  us,  to  be  in 
turn  passed  down  by  us  to  those  for  whom,  as  for  ourselves,  the 
patriots  who  won  it  by  their  blood,  ordained  it. 

12.  And  now  should  we,  can  we,  dare  we,  in  the  face  of 
heaven  and  earth,  stop  the  awful  bequest  in  its  descent,  shiver 
it  into  worthless  fragments,  destroy  that  which  is  not  ou?  own, 
but  mankind's  for  this  and  the  coming  ages,  defraud  posterity 
of  the  richest  blessing  ordained  for  them  by  the  sainted  and 
illustrious  dead  of  a  dead  century,  swindle  all  the  human  race 
of  this  and  all  the  future  time,  of  what  myriads  of  millions  have 
contemplated  with  gratitude  and  adoration  as  the  mightiest  boon 
of  Grod  to  his  creatures,  and  leave  our  names  to  creak  and 
blacken  on  the  gibbet  of  infamy,  as  the  names  of  men  who  cursed 
their  race,  and  shall  be  cursed  by  it  as  long  as  there  shall  be  an 
atmosnhere  to  bear  the  sound  of  a  curse  upon  its  bosom  1 


364  SANDERS'    UNION    SEEIBS. 

EXERCISE  CVII. 

LINES  ON  A  SKELETON. 

I. 

Behold  this  ruin  !     'Twas  a  skull 
Once  of  ethereal  spirit  full. 
Thih  narrow  cell  was  Life's  retreat, 
This  space  was  Thought's  mysterious  seat. 
What  beauteous  visions  filled  this  spot  I 
What  dreams  of  pleasure  long  forgot ! 
Nor  Hope,  nor  Joy,  nor  Love,  nor  Fear, 
Have  left  one  trace  of  record  here. 

II. 

Beneath  this  moldering  canopy, 

Once  shone  the  bright  and  busy  eye ; 

But  start  not  at  the  dismal  void — 

If  social  love  that  eye  employed. 

If  with  no  lawless  fire  it  gleamed, 

But  through  the  dews  of  kindness  beamed, 

That  eye  shall  be  forever  bright 

When  stars  and  sun  are  sunk  in  night. 

III. 

Within  this  hollow  cavern  hung 

The  ready,  swift,  and  tuneful  tongue. 

If  falsehood's  honey  it  disdained. 

And  when  it  could  not  praise,  was  chainedi 

If  bold  in  Virtue's  cause  it  spoke, 

Yet  gentle  concord  never  broke  ! 

This  silent  tongue  shall  plead  for  thee 

When  time  unvails  Eternity. 

TV. 

Say,  did  these  fingers  delve  the  mine  ? 
Or  with  the  envied  rubies  shine  ? 
To  hew  the  rock  or  wear  the  srem 
Can  little  now  avail  to  them. 


ANONTMOIT8. 


865 


RHETORICAL    READER. 

But  if  the  page  of  truth  they  sought, 
Or  comfort  to  the  mourner  brought, 
These  hands  a  richer  meed  shall  claim 
Than  all  that  wait  on  Wealth  or  Fame. 

V. 

Avails  it,  whether  bare  or  shod. 
These  feet  the  paths  of  duty  trod  ? 
If  from  the  bowers  of  Ease  they  fled, 
To  seek  Affliction's  humble  shed ; 
If  Grandeur's  guilty  bride  they  spurned. 
And  home  to  Virtue's  cot  returned, 
These  feet  wiib  angels'  wings  shall  vie, 
And  tread  the  palace  of  the  sky. 


EXERCISE  CVIIl. 

William  Wordsworth  whose  claims  to  distinction,  as  a  great  poet,  have 
been  so  often  and  so  sharply  contested,  was  born  in  the  county  of  Cumber- 
land, England,  in  the  year  1770,  and  died  in  1850.  Poetry  was  almost  the 
8ole  business  of  his  life :  circumstances  conspiring,  in  a  remarkable  way,  to 
afford  him  leisure  to  follow  this  object. 

William  and  Robert  Chambers  are  models  of  energy  and  perseverance. 
They  are  natives  of  Peebles,  in  Scotland.  William  was  born  in  1800 ;  Robert 
in  1802.  William  learned  the  trade  of  a  printer ;  Robert  became  a  bookseller  ; 
and  both  became  authors.  Until  1832,  these  brothers  pursued  their  fortunes, 
for  the  most  part,  separately.  At  that  time  they  united  their  business  estab- 
lishments, and  commenced  the  publication  of  the  famous  "  EdinburgL  Journal." 
Two  years  later  they  started  a  series  of  treatises,  in  popular  style,  under  the 
title, — "  Information  for  the  People."  Both  of  these  reached  an  enormous 
circulation.  Then  followed  (among  other  things)  a  "  Cyclopaedia  of  English 
Literature,"  and  "  Papers  for  the  People ;"  from  the  former  of  which  we  have 
taken  our  sketch  of  "The  Ettrick  Shepherd,"  (Exercise  X.)  and  from  the 
latter,  the  following,  as  it  seems  to  us,  fair  estimate  of  the  poet  Wordsworth. 


SKETCH  OF  WORDSWORTH. 

CHAUBEKS. 

I.  His  devotion  to  external  nature  had  the  power  xnd  pei* 
vasiveness  of  a  passion ;  his  perception  of  its  most  minute  beauties 
was  exquisitely  fine  ;  and  his  portraitures,  both  of  landscapes  and 
figures,  were  so  distinctly  outlined  as  to  imnress  them  on  the 


366  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES. 

mind  almost  as  vividly  and  deeply  as  the  sight  of  them  couiJ 
hove  done. 

2.  But.  he  was  defective  in  the  stronger  passions,  and  hence, 
in  spite  of  the  minuteness  of  his  portraitures  of  character,  he 
failed  to  praduce  real  human  beings  capable  of  stirring  the  blood ; 
and  what  was  even  more  serious,  he  himself  was  incapacitated 
from  feeling  a  genial  and  warm  sympathy  in  the  struggles  of 
modern  man,  on  whom  he  rather  looked,  as  from  a  distant  hight 
with  the  commiseration  of  seme  loftier  nature. 

3.  From  the  characteristics  enumerated  arose  the  great  faults 
of  his  works.  His  landscape  paintings  are  often  much  too 
minute.  He  dwells  too  tediously  on  every  small  object  and 
detail,  and  from  his  over-intense  appreciation  of  them,  which 
magnifies  their  importance,  rejects  all  extrinsic  ornaments,  and 
occasionally,  though  exceptionally,  adopts  a  style  bare  and 
meager,  and  even  phrases  tainted  with  mean  associations.  Hence 
all  his  personages — being  without  reality — fail  to  attract ;  and 
even  his  strong  domestic  affections,  and  his  love  for  everythmg 
pure  and  simple,  do  not  give  a  sufificient  human  interest  to  his 
poems. 

4.  His  prolixity  and  tediousness  are  aggravated  by  a  want  of 
artistic  skill  in  construction  ;  and  it  is  owing  to  this  that  he  is 
most  perfect  in  the  sonnet,  which  renders  the  development  of 
these  faults  an  impossibility,  while  it  gives  free  play  to  his 
naturally  pure,  tasteful,  and  lofty  diction.  His  imagination  was 
majestic ;  his  fancy  lively  and  sparkling ;  and  he  had  a  refined 
and  attic  humor,  which,  however,  he  seldom  called  into  exercise. 

5.  The  influence  of  Wordsworth  on  the  poetry  of  his  age  has, 
however,  been  as  beneficial  as  extensive.  He  has  turned  the 
public  taste  from  pompous  inanity  to  the  study  of  man  and 
nature;  he  has  banished  the  false  and  exaggerated  style  of 
character  and  emotion  which  even  the  genius  of  Byron  stooped 
to  imitate ;  and  he  has  enlisted  the  sensibilities  and  sympathies 
of  his  intellectual  brethren  in  favor  of  the  most  expansive  and 
kindly  philanthropy  * 

*  This  last  paragraph  is  from  a  diflFerent  work  by  the  same  author 


RHETORICAL    READER.  8W 

EXERCISE  CIX. 
INTIMATIONS  OF  IMMORTALITY. 

WOBDSWORVH 
I. 

There  was  a  time  when  meadow,  grove,  and  stream, 
The  earth  and  every  common  sight, 
To  me  did  seem 
Appareled  in  celestial  light, 
The  glory  and  the  freshness  of  a  dream. 
It  is  not  now  as  it  has  been  of  yore ; 
Turn  whereso'er  I  may, 
By  night  or  day, 
The  things  which  I  have  seen,  I  now  can  see  no  more 

ri. 

The  Rainbow  comes  and  goes, 

And  lovely  is  the  Rose, 

The  moon  doth  with  delight 
Look  round  her  when  the  heavens  are  bare, 

Waters  on  a  starry  night 

Are  beautiful  and  fair ; 
The  sunshine  is  a  glorious  birth ; 
But  yet  I  know,  where'er  I  go. 
That  there  hath  passed  away  a  glory  from  the  earth. 

III. 

Now,  while  the  birds  thus  sing  a  joyous  song, 
And  while  the  young  lambs  bound 

As  to  the  tabor's  sound, 
To  me  alone  there  came  a  thought  of  grief; 
A  timely  utterance  gave  that  thought  relief, 

And  I  again  am  strong : 
The  cataracts  blow  their  trumpets  frpm  the  steep  j 
No  more  shall  grief  of  mine  the  season  wrong ; 
I  hear  the  Echoes  through  the  mountains  throng, 
l^he  winds  come  to  me  from  the  fields  of  sleep, 


3b5  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES. 

And  all  the  earth  is  gay ; 

Land  and  sea 
Grive  themselves  up  to  jollity, 
And  with  the  heart  of  May 
Doth  even  Beast  keep  holiday ; — 
Thou  Child  of  Joy, 
Shout  round  me,  let  me  hear  thy  shouts,  then  happy 
Shepherd-boy ! 

IV. 

0  joy !  that  in  our  embers 

Is  something  that  doth  live, 
That  Nature  yet  remembers 
What  was  so  fugitive  ! 
The  thought  of  our  past  years  in  me  doth  breed 
Perpetual  benediction  ;  not,  indeed. 
For  that  which  is  most  worthy  to  be  blest; 
Delight  and  liberty,  the  simple  creed 
Of  Childhood,  whether  busy  or  at  rest, 
With  new-fledged  hope  still  fluttering  in  his  breast : 
Not  for  these  I  raise 
The  song  of  thanks  and  praise ; 
But  for  those  obstinate  questionings 
Of  sense  and  outward  things. 
Fallings  from  us,  vanishings ; 
Blank  misgivings  of  a  Creature 
Moving  about  in  worlds  not  realized, 
High  instincts  before  which  our  mortal  Nature 
Did  tremble  like  a  guilty  thing  surprised  : 
But  for  those  first  afi'ections 
Those  shadowy  recollections, 
Which,  be  they  what  they  may, 
Are  yet  the  fountain-light  of  all  our  day. 
Are  yet  a  master-light  of  all  our  seeing ; 

Uphold  us,  cherish,  and  have  power  to  make 
Our  noisy  years  seem  moments  in  the  being 
Of  the  eternal  silence :  truths  that  wake. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  O 

To  perish  never; 
Which  neither  listlessness,  nor  mad  endeavor, 

Nor  Man  nor  Boy, 
Nor  all  that  is  at  enmity  with  joy, 
Can  utterly  abolish  or  destroy  ! 

Hence  in  a  season  of  calm  weather. 
Though  inland  far  we  be, 
Our  souls  have  sight  of  that  immortal  sea 

Which  brought  us  hither, 

Can  in  a  moment  travel  thither, 
And  see  the  Children  sport  upon  the  shore, 
And  hear  the  mighty  waters  rolling  evermore. 

V. 
Then  sing,  ye  Birds,  sing,  sing,  a  joyous  song  ! 

And  let  the  young  Lambs  bound 

As  to  the  tabor's  sound  ! 
We,  in  thought,  will  join  your  throng, 

Ye  that  pipe  and  ye  that  play, 

Ye  that  through  your  hearts  to-day 

Feel  the  gladness  of  the  May ! 
What  though  the  radiance  which  was  once  so  bright, 
Be  now  forever  taken  from  my  sight, 
Though  nothing  can  bring  back  the  hour 
Of  splendor  in  the  grass,  of  glory  in  the  flowery 
We  will  grieve  not,  rather  find 
Strength  in  what  remains  behind ; 
In  the  primal  sympathy 
Which,  having  been,  must  ever  be ; 
In  the  soothing  thoughts  that  spring 
Out  of  human  suflFering ; 
In  the  faith  that  looks  through  death, 
In  years  that  bring  the  philosophic  mind. 


16 


'■<70  SANDERS'    UNION     SERIES. 


EXERCISE  ex. 


Edward  Everett,  the  distinguished  American  orator  and  statesman,  was 
born  in  Dorchester,  Massachusetts,  on  the  11th  of  April,  l7i*4.  He  had  a 
high  reputation,  as  a  scholar  and  a  writer,  even  Before  he  had  completed  his 
college  course.  He  commenced  professional  life,  as  a  clergjman;  and,  in 
1813,  was  settled,  as  a  pastor,  in  the  city  of  Boston.  In  1814,  being  chosen 
Professor  of  Greek  in  Harvard  College,  he  spent  four  years  abroad,  the  hotter 
to  qualify  himself  for  the  duties  of  his  ofiBce.  On  his  return,  he  assumed  the 
editorship  of  the  North  American  Review,  and  continued  to  conduct  it  till 
1824.  Tl  3n,  also,  began  Mr.  Everett's  political  career :  he  being,  at  that  time, 
elected  to  Congress.  He  served  in  that  relation  for  ten  years.  In  1834  he  was 
elected  Governor  of  Massachusetts.  In  18-10  he  again  visited  Europe.  In 
1848,  on  his  return  to  America,  he  was  immediately  chosen  President  of  Har- 
vard University.  Upon  the  death  of  Daniel  Webster,  in  1852,  he  was  called 
to  take  his  place,  as  Secretary  of  State.  In  1853  he  took  his  seat  in  the  Senate 
of  the  United  States ;  having  been  elected  thereto  by  the  Legislature  of  Mas- 
dachusetts.  In  1856  he  delivered  his  celebrated  discourse  on  Washington, 
the  object  of  which  was  to  aid  in  gathering  a  fund  to  purchase  Mount  Vernon. 
This  discourse  he  has  repeated  no  less  than  a  hundred  and  twenty-two  times 
for  the  same  object.  Besides  all  this,  Mr.  Everett  has  delivered  numerous 
addresses  to  various  bodies,  all  excellent  in  design  and  admirable  in  execution. 

THE  PROSPECTS  OF  THE  REPUBLIC. 

EDWARD  EVERETT 

1.  This,  then,  is  the  theater  on  which  the  intellect  of  America 
is  to  appear,  and  such  the  motives  to  its  exertion ;  such  the  mass 
to  be  influenced  by  itv**  energies,  such  the  crowd  to  witness  its 
efforts,  such  the  glory  to  crown  its  success.  If  I  err  in  this 
happy  vision  of  my  country's  fortunes,  I  thank  God  for  an  erroi 
so  animating.  If  this  be  false,  may  I  never  know  the  truth. 
Never  may  you,  my  friends,  be  under  any  other  feeling,  than 
that  a  great,  a  growing,  an  immeasurably  expanding  country  is 
calling  upon  you  for  your  best  services. 

2.  The  name  and  character  of  our  Alma  Mater  have  alwavs 
been  carried  by  some  of  our  brethren  thousands  of  miles  from 
her  venerable  walls;  and  thousands  of  miles  still  farther  west- 
war<l,  the  communities  of  kindred  men  are  fust  gathering,  whose 
minds  and  hearts  will  act  in  sympathy  with  yours, 

3.  The  most  powerful  motives  call  on  us,  as  scholars,  for  those 
efforts,  which  our  common  country  demands  of  all  her  children 
Most  of  us  are  of  that  class,  who  owe  whatever  of  knowledge 
has  shone  into  our  minds,  to  the  free  and  popular  institutions 


RHETORIOA.L    READER.  371 

of  our  native  land  There  are  few  of  us,  who  may  not  be  per- 
mitted to  boast,  that  we  have  been  reared  in  an  honest  povertj; 
or  a  frugal  competence,  and  owe  everything  to  those  means  of 
education  which  are  equally  open  to  all. 

4.  W3  are  summoned  to  new  energy  and  zeal  by  the  high 
nature  of  the  experiment  we  are  appointed  in  Providence  to  make 
and  the  grandeur  of  the  theater  on  which  it  is  to  be  performed. 
When  the  old  world  afforded  no  longer  any  hope,  it  pleased 
Heaven  to  open  this  last  refuge  of  humanity.  The  attempt 
has  begun,  and  is  going  on,  far  from  foreign  corruption,  on  the 
broadest  scale,  and  under  the  most  benignant  prospects ;  and  it 
certainly  rests  with  us  to  solve  the  great  problem  in  human 
society,  to  settle,  and  that  forever,  that  momentous  question — 
whether  mankind  can  be  trusted  with  a  purely  popular  system? 

5.  One  might  almost  think,  without  extravagance,  that  the 
departed  wise  and  good  of  all  places  and  times  are  looking  down 
from  their  happy  seats  to  witness  what  shall  now  be  done  by  us ; 
that  they  who  lavished  their  treasures  and  their  blood  of  old, 
who  labored  and  suffered,  who  spake  and  wrote,  who  fought  and 
perished,  in  the  one  great  cause  of  freedom  and  truth,  are  now 
hanging  from  their  orbs  on  high,  over  the  last  solemn  experi- 
ment of  humanity. 

6.  As  I  have  wandered  over  the  spots,  once  the  scene  of  their 
labors,  and  mused  among  the  prostrate  columns  of  their  senate 
houses  and  forums,  I  have  seemed  almost  to  hear  a  voice  from 
the  tombs  of  departed  ages ;  from  the  sepulchers  of  the  nations, 
which  died  before  the  sight.  They  exhort  us,  they  adjure  us, 
to  be  faithful  to  our  trust. 

7.  They  implore  us,  by  the  long  trials  of  struggling  humanity, 
by  th3  blessed  memory  of  the  departed ;  by  the  dear  faith,  which 
has  been  plighted  by  pure  hands,  to  the  holy  cause  of  truth  and 
man;  by  the  awful  secrets  of  the  prison  houses,  where  the  sons 
of  freedom  have  been  immured ;  by  the  noble  heads  which  have 
been  brought  to  the  block ;  by  the  wrecks  of  time,  by  the  elo- 
quent ruins  of  nations,  they  conjure  us  not  to  quench  the  light 
which  is  rising  on  the  world.  Grreece  cries  to  us,  by  the  con 
vulsed  lips  of  her  poisoned,  dying  Demosthenes;  and  Rome 
pleads  with  us,  in  the  mute  persuasion  of  her  mangled  Tully. 


872  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES. 

EXERCISE  CXI. 
THE  WIDOW  AND  HER  SON. 

WASHINGTON  IRVINCi.* 

1.  I  am  fond  of  loitering  about  country  churches,  and  this 
was  so  delightfully  situated,  that  it  frequently  attracted  me.  It 
stood  on  a  knoll,  round  which  a  small  stream  made  a  beautiful 
bend,  and  then  wound  its  way  through  a  long  reach  of  loft 
meadow  scenery.  The  church  was  surrounded  by  yew-trees, 
which  seemed  almost  coeval  with  itself  Its  tall  Gothic  spire 
shot  up  lightly  from  among  them,  with  rooks  and  crows  generally 
wheeling  about  it. 

2.  I  was  seated  there  one  still  sunny  morning,  watching  two 
laborers  who  were  digging  a  grave.  They  had  chosen  one  of 
the  most  remote  and  neglected  corners  of  the  church-yard, 
where,  by  the  number  of  nameless  graves  around,  it  would  ap 
pear  that  the  indigent  and  friendless  were  hurried  into  the  earth. 
I  was  told  that  the  new-made  grave  was  for  the  only  son  of  a 
poor  widow.  While  I  was  meditating  on  the  distinctions  of 
worldly  rank,  which  extend  thus  down  into  the  very  dust,  tho 
toll  of  the  bell  announced  the  approach  of  the  funeral. 

3.  They  were  the  obsequiew  of  poverty,  with  which  pride  had 
nothing  to  do.  A  coffin  of  the  plainest  materials,  without  pall 
or  other  covering,  was  borne  by  some  of  the  villagers.  The 
sexton  walked  before,  with  an  air  of  cold  indifference.  There 
were  no  mock  mourners  in  the  trappings  of  affected  woe,  but 
there  was  one  real  mourner,  who  feebly  tottered  after  the  corpse. 
It  was  the  aged  mother  of  the  deceased — the  poor  old  woman 
whom  I  had  seen  seated  on  the  steps  of  the  altar.  She  was 
supported  by  a  humble  friend,  who  was  endeavoring  to  comfort 
her.  A  few  of  the  neighboring  poor  had  joined  the  train,  and 
some  children  of  the  village  were  running,  hand  in  hand,  now 
shouting  with  unthinking  mirth,  and  sometimes  pausing  to  gaze 
with  childish  curiosity  on  the  grief  of  the  mourner. 

4.  As  the  funeral  train  approached  the  grave,  the  parson 
bsued  out  of  the  church  porch,  arrayed  in  the  surplice,  with 


*  See  Exercise  CLI. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  373 

prayer-book  iu  hand,  and  attended  by  the  clerk.  The  service, 
however,  v^as  a  mere  act  of  charity.  The  deceased  had  been 
destitute,  and  the  survivor  was  penniless.  It  was  shuflBed 
through,  therefore,  in  form,  but  coldly  and  unfeelingly.  The 
well-fed  priest  scarcely  moved  ten  steps  from  the  church  door ; 
his  voice  could  scarcely  be  heard  at  the  grave;  and  never  did  I 
hear  the  funeral  service,  that  subHme  and  touching  ceremony, 
turned  into  such  a  frigid  mummery  of  words. 

5.  I  approached  the  grave.  The  coffin  was  placed  on  the 
ground.  On  it  were  inscribed  the  name  and  age  of  the  deceased 
— "  George  Somers,  aged  26  years."  The  poor  mother  had 
been  assisted  to  kneel  down  at  the  head  of  it.  Her  withered 
hands  were  clasped  as  if  in  prayer ;  but  I  could  perceive,  by  a 
feeble  rocking  of  the  body  and  a  convulsive  motion  of  the  lips, 
that  she  was  gazing  on  the  last  relics  of  her  son  with  the  yearn- 
ings of  a  mother's  heart. 

6.  The  service  being  ended,  preparations  were  made  to  deposit 
the  coffin  in  the  earth.  There  was  that  bustling  stir  that  breaks 
so  harshly  on  the  feelings  of  grief  and  aflfection  :  directions 
given  in  the  cold  tones  of  business  j  the  striking  of  spades  into 
sand  and  gravel,  which,  at  the  grave  of  those  we  love,  is  of  al? 
sounds  the  most  withering.  The  bustle  around  seemed  to  awaken 
the  mother  from  a  wretched  reverie.  She  raised  her  glazed 
eyes,  and  looked  about  with  a  faint  wildness.  As  the  men 
approached  with  cords  to  lower  the  coffin  into  the  grave,  she 
wrung  her  hands  and  broke  into  an  agony  of  grief.  The  poor 
woman  who  attended  her,  took  her  by  the  arm,  endeavored  to 
raise  her  from  the  earth,  and  to  whisper  something  like  consola- 
tion— "Nay,  now — nay,  now — don't  take  it  so  sorely  to  heart.'* 
She  could  only  shake  her  head  and  wring  her  hands  as  one  not 
to  be  comforted. 

7.  As  they  lowered  the  body  into  the  earth,  the  creaking  of 
the  cords  seemed  to  agonize  her;  but  when,  on  some  accidental 
obstruction,  there  was  a  jostling  of  the  coffin,  all  the  tenderness 
of  the  mother  burst  forth ;  as  if  any  harm  could  come  to  him 
who  was  far  beyond  the  reach  of  worldly  suffering.  I  couM  see 
no  more — my  heart  swelled  into  my  throat — my  eyes  filled  with 


•574  SANl^ERS'    UNION     SERIES. 

tears — I  felt  as  if  I  were  acting  a  barbarous  part  in  (Standing  hy 
and  gazing  idly  on  this  scene  of  maternal  anguish.  I  wandered 
to  another  part  of  the  church-yard,  where  I  remained  until  the 
funeral  train  had  dispersed. 

8.  When  I  saw  tne  mother  slowly  and  painfully  quitting  the 
grave,  leaving  behind  her  the  remains  of  all  that  was  dear  to 
her  on  earth,  and  returning  to  silence  and  destitution,  my  heart 
ache  1  for  her.  What,  thought  I,  are  the  distresses  of  the  rich  ? 
They  have  friends  to  soothe — pleasures  to  beguile — a  world  to 
divert  and  dissipate  their  griefs.  What  are  the  sorrows  of  the 
young?  Their  growing  minds  soon  close  above  the  wound — 
their  elastic  spirits  soon  rise  beneath  the  pressure — their  green 
and  ductile  affections  soon  twine  around  new  objects.  But  the 
sorrows  of  the  poor,  who  have  no  outward  appliances  to  soothe — 
the  sorrows  of  the  aged,  with  whom  life,  at  best,  is  but  a  wintery 
day,  and  who  can  look  for  no  after-growth  of  joy — the  sorrows 
of  a  widow,  aged,  solitary,  destitute,  mourning  over  an  only  son, 
the  last  solace  of  her  years, — these  are  the  sorrows  which  make 
us  feel  the  impotency  of  consolation. 

9.  It  was  some  time  before  I  left  the  church-yard.  On  my 
way  homeward,  I  met  with  the  woman  who  had  acted  as  com- 
forter :  she  was  just  returning  from  accompanying  the  mother 
to  her  lonely  habitation,  and  I  drew  from  her  some  particulars 
connected  with  the  affecting  scene  I  had  witnessed. 

10.  The  parents  pf  the  deceased  had  resided  in  the  village 
from  childhood.  They  had  inhabited  one  of  the  neatest  cottages, 
and,  by  various  rural  occupations,  and  the  assistance  of  a  small 
garden,  had  supported  themselves  creditably  and  comfortably, 
and  led  a  happy  and  a  blameless  life.  They  had  one  son,  who 
had  sTown  up  to  be  the  staff  and  pride  of  their  age.  "  0,  sir  V* 
said  the  good  woman,  "  he  was  such  a  likely  lad,  so  sweet-tern* 
p<3rel,  so  kind  to  every  one  around  him,  so  dutiful  to  his  parents  . 
It  did  one's  heart  good  to  see  him  of  a  Sunday,  drest  out  in  his 
best,  so  tall,  so  straight,  so  cheery,  supporting  his  old  mother  to 
church, — for  she  was  always  fonder  of  leaning  on  George's  arm, 
than  on  her  good  man's  ;  and,  poor  soul,  she  might  well  be  proud 
of  him,  for  a  finer  lad  there  was  not  in  the  country  round." 


RHETORICAL     READER.  375 

11.  Unfortunately,  the  son  was  tempted,  during  a  year  of 
Bcarcity  and  agricultural  hardship,  to  enter  into  the  service  of 
one  of  the  small  craft  that  plied  on  a  neighboring  river.  He 
had  not  been  long  in  this  employ,  when  he  was  entrapped  by  a 
press-gang,  and  carried  off  to  sea.  His  parents  received  the 
tidings  of  his  seizure,  but  beyond  that  they  could  learn  nothing. 
It  was  the  loss  of  their  main  prop.  The  father,  who  was  already 
infirm,  grew  heartless  and  melancholy,  and  sunk  into  his  grave. 

1 2.  The  widow,  left  lonely  in  her  age  and  feebleness,  could 
no  longer  support  herself,  and  came  upon  the  parish.  Still  there 
was  a  kind  feeling  toward  her  throughout  the  village,  and  a  cer- 
tain respect,  as  being  one  of  the  oldest  inhabitants.  As  no  one 
applied  for  the  cottage  in  which  she  had  passed  so  many  happy 
days,  she  was  permitted  to  remain  in  it,  Avhere  she  lived  solitary 
and  almost  helpless.  The  few  wants  of  nature  were  chiefly  sup- 
plied from  the  scanty  productions  of  her  little  garden,  which  the 
neighbors  would  now  and  then  cultivate  for  her. 

1 3.  It  was  but  a  few  days  before  the  time  at  which  these  cir- 
cumstances were  told  me,  that  she  was  gathering  some  vegetables 
for  her  repast,  when  she  heard  the  cottage-door,  that  faced  the 
garden,  suddenly  opened.  A  stranger  came  out,  and  seemed  to 
be  looking  eagerly  and  wildly  around.  He  was  dressed  in  sea- 
man's clothes,  was  emaciated  and  ghastly  pale,  and  bore  the  air 
of  one  broken  by  sickness  and  hardships.  He  saw  her,  and 
hastened  toward  her  ;  but  his  steps  were  faint  and  faltering  :  he 
sank  on  his  knees  before  her,  and  sobbed  like  a  child.  The  poor 
woman  gazed  upon  him  with  a  vacant  and  wandering  eye — "  O 
my  dear,  dear  mother  !  don't  you  know  your  son  !  your  poor  boy, 
George !"  It  was,  indeed,  the  wreck  of  her  once  noble  lad ; 
who,  shattered  by  wounds,  by  sickness,  and  foreign  imprison- 
ment, had,  at  length,  dragged  his  wasted  limbs  homeward,  to 
repose  among  the  scenes  of  his  childhood. 

1 4.  I  will  not  attempt  to  detail  the  particulars  of  such  a  meet- 
ing, where  joy  and  sorrow  were  so  completely  blended  :  still  he 
was  alive  ! — he  was  come  home  ! — he  might  yet  live  to  comfort 
and  cherish  her  old  age !  Xature,  however,  was  exhausted  in 
him ;  and,  if  anything  had  been  wanting  to  finish  the  work  of 


<i76  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES. 

fate,  the  desolation  of  his  native  cottage  would  have  been  suffix 
cient.  He  stretched  himself  on  the  pallet  where  his  widowed 
mother  had  passed  many  a  sleepless  night,  and  he  never  rose 
from  it  again. 

15.  The  villagers,  when  they  heard  that  George  Somcrs  had 
returned,  crowded  to  sec  him,  offering  every  comfort  and  assist- 
ance that  their  humble  means  afforded.  He,  however,  was  too 
weak  i  3  talk — he  could  only  look  his  thanks.  His  mother  was 
his  constant  attendant,  and  he  seemed  unwilling  to  be  helped  by 
any  other  hand. 

16.  There  is  something  in  sickness,  that  breaks  down  the  pride 
of  manhood;  that  softens  the  heart,  and  brings  it  back  to  the 
feelings  of  infancy.  Who  that  has  suffered,  even  in  advanced 
life,  in  sickness  and  despondency — who  that  has  pined  on  a 
weary  bed  in  the  neglect  and  loneliness  of  a  foreign  land — but 
has  thought  on  the  mother  "  that  looked  on  his  childhood,"  that 
smoothed  his  pillow,  and  administered  to  his  helplessness ! 

17.  Oh !  there  is  an  enduring  tenderness  in  the  love  of  a 
mother  to  a  son,  that  transcends  all  other  affections  of  the  heart. 
It  is  neither  to  be  chilled  by  selfishness,  nor  daunted  by  danger, 
nor  weakened  by  worthlessness,  nor  stifled  by  ingratitude.  She 
will  sacrifice  every  comfort  to  his  convenience ;  she  will  sur- 
render every  pleasure  to  his  enjoyment;  she  will  glory  in  his 
fame,  and  exult  in  his  prosperity;  and,  if  adversity  overtake 
him,  he  will  be  the  dearer  to  her  by  misfortune;  and,  if  dis- 
grace settle  upon  his  name,  she  will  still  love  and  cherish  him ; 
and,  if  all  the  world  besides  cast  him  off,  she  will  be  all  the 
world  to  him. 

18.  Poor  George  Somers  had  known  well  what  it  was  to  be 
in  sickness  and  none  to  soothe — lonely  and  in  prison,  and  none 
to  visit  him.  He  could  not  endure  his  mother  from  his  sight; 
if  sh3  moved  away,  his  eye  would  follow  her.  She  would  sit  for 
hours  by  his  bed,  watching  him  as  he  slept.  Sometimes  he 
would  start  from  a  feverish  dream,  look  anxious/jr  up  until  he 
saw  her  venerable  form  bending  over  him,  when  he  would  take 
her  hand,  lay  it  on  his  bosom,  and  fall  asleep  with  the  tranquil 
lity  of  a  ^hild.     In  this  way  he  died. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  377 


EXERCISE  CXII. 

The  splendid  eulogy  which  follows,  forms  the  close  of  an  oration 
delivered  before  the  Legislature  of  Massachusetts,  at  thiur  request,  on 
the  Hundredth  Anniversary  of  the  Birthday  of  George  Washington. 

Eulogy  (Eit,  well,  and  loot,  a  speaking)  signifies  a  speaking  well  of, 
that  is,  a  speech  in  praise  of  some  particular  person ;  a  formal  address 
laudatory  of  the  virtues  of  an  individual.  See  Sanders  and  McElligelt'e 
Analysis  of  English  Words,  page  74. 

EULOGY  ON  WASHINGTON. 

FBANCT8  0.  GRAY. 

1.  The  eye  of  posterity,  in  looking  back  on  the  pyramid  of 
a  nation's  glory,  less  to  scrutinize  its  structure,  than  to  contem- 
plate its  lofty  grandeur,  will  always  involuntarily  rest  upon  its 
summit.  And,  if  it  behold  there,  not  a  gigantic  phantom,  gifted 
with  power  and  genius,  indeed,  yet  distorted  by  ambition,  or 
polluted  by  crimes, — but  a  majestic  form,  erect  and  serene;  of 
exact  proportions  and  severe  simplicity;  without  a  fault  for  cen- 
sure, an  extravagance  for  ridicule,  or  a  blemish  for  regret, — on 
that  it  will  delight  to  linger,  to  that  it  will  direct  the  admiration 
of  mankind. 

2.  Rapidly  as  the  prosperity  of  America  has  advanced,  the 
name  of  Washington  has  risen  still  faster.  Already  it  overtops 
every  other  belonging  to  the  new  world,  and  equals  the  greatest 
in  the  old.  The  opinions  of  his  countrymen  may  be  partial. 
But  his  character  is  every  where  venerated.  The  once  great 
ornament  of  the  English  bar, — the  champion  of  the  rights  of 
juries,  and  the  master  of  their  hearts,  who  had  no  competitor 
in  forensic  eloquence,  and  who  has  been  followed  by  no  equal, — 
long  ago  declared,  that  this  one  man  was  the  only  human  being, 
of  whom  he  ever  stood  in  awe. 

3.  Philosophy,  too — whose  decisions  are  more  calm,  but  quite 
as  durable  as  those  of  eloquence — philosophy  has  rendered  her 
tribute  to  his  fame.  The  most  distinguished  living  philosopher 
in  Great  Britain,  an  illiietrious  father's  not  less  illustrious  son,  in 
a  recent  work  worthy  of  his  genius,  while  contending  against 


878  SANDERS'     UNION     SERIES. 

the  asserted  inferiority  of  the  moderns  to  the  ancients,  holds  up 
the  three  chief  lights  of  modern  science  as  equal  to  the  three 
greatest  of  their  philosophers;  and,  at  the  same  time,  points 
singly  to  Washington,  as  not  inferior  in  virtue  and  in  patriotism, 
to  the  brightest  examples  of  antiquity.  But  why  cite  the 
opinions  of  individuals,  however  eminent  ?  Wherever  the  name 
of  America  is  known,  wherever  liberty,  or  the  desire  of  liberty, 
dwells  upon  the  earth,  there  his  praise  is  familiar. 

4.  Thus  much  has  been  already  gained.  This  harvest  of  glory, 
at  least,  is  secure,  ripe,  reaped,  garnered,  hid  in  the  sacred  trea- 
sure of  the  past.  O,  for  a  prophet's  eye  to  look  into  the  future  ! 
\f  it  be  the  destiny  of  America  to  administer  with  fidelity,  wis- 
lom  and  success,  her  free  institutions,  and,  especially,  that  Union 
^hich  is  the  great  security  of  all  the  rest,  and  to  spread  them 
over  the  whole  continent, — filling  it  with  a  numerous,  enlightened, 
industrious,  moral,  and  contented  people — one  in  name,  one  in 
government,  one  in  power — and  thus  realizing  the  prophetic 
vision  of  Berkeley,*  to  build  up  here  an  empire  the  last  and  the 
noblest  ofi'spring  of  Time, — this  whole  accumulated  greatness 
will  constantly  tend  to  exalt  higher  and  higher  in  the  estimation 
of  mankind  him,  who  will  forever  be  deemed  the  Founder  of 
it  all. 

5.  Above  all,  if  it  shall  be  found,  that  under  the  full  develop- 
ment of  a  system,  thus  equally  distributing  political  power,  and 
perfectly  securing  private  right,  so  as  to  leave  to  every  individual 
the  free  and  unincumbered  exercise  of  the  faculties  which  God 
has  given  him,  those  faculties  breathing  the  pure  air  of  liberty, 
and  growing  up  and  expanding  in  all  their  native  vigor,  will  be 
capable  of  achieving  splendid  triumphs ;  and  that  the  equal  pro- 
tection of  the  rights  of  all,  best  tends  to  bring  about  that  noblest 

*  The  reference  is  to  the  fain:,u8  lines  of  the  celebrated  Bishop 
Berkeley  (born  1684,  died  1753)  which  follow:— 

"  Westward  the  cours*  of  empire  takes  its  way ; 
The  four  first  acts  already  past ; 
A.  fifth  shall  close  the  drama  with  the  day ; 
Time^g  noblest  offspring  is  the  last." 


RHETORICAL    READER.  379 

of  triamphs,  which  is  alone  conducive  to  the  equal  happiness  of 
all,  the  triumph  of  intellect  over  force,  and  of  virtue  over  intel- 
lect,— then,  indeed,  will  those  who  prize  intellect,  or  delight  in 
virtue,  throughout  all  time,  turn  to  him,  whose  intellectual  and 
moral  greatness  first  introduced  and  recommended  this  system — 
standing,  at  last,  all  alone  in  his  pre-eminence,  fixed  forever  in 
the  solitude  of  his  glory,  as  the  Miracle  of  Men,  the  greatest 
earthly  Benefactor  of  mankind, — and  will  exult  that  they  belong 
to  the  same  race  of  beings  with  Washington. 


EXERCISE  CXIII. 

*  Palla-'dium  is  the  name  of  a  statue  of  Pallas  (Minerva),  on  the  pre- 
servation of  which  depended  the  safety  of  ancient  Troy ;  hence  the 
application  of  the  word  to  a  safeguard  of  any  kind. 

2  CoLiSE''uM  (also  written  Colosseum)  is  the  name  of  a  celebrated 
amphitheater,  at  Rome,  the  ruins  of  which  are  still  standing.  It  waa 
begun  by  the  emperor  Vespasian,  and  finished  by  his  son  Titus,  and  is 
fiaid  to  have  held  over  100,000  spectators. 

^  Par-'thenon,  from  a  Greek  word  meaning  a  virgin,  is  the  name 
applied  to  a  celebrated  temple  in  ancient  Athens,  dedicated  to  the 
virgin-goddess  Minerva. 

WASHINGTON'S  SOLICITUDE  FOR  THE  UNION. 

YTEBSTER.* 

1.  There  was  in  the  breast  of  Washington  one  sentiment  so 
deeply  felt,  so  constantly  uppermost,  that  no  proper  occasion 
escaped  without  its  utterance.  From  the  letter  which  he  signed 
in.  behalf  of  the  convention  when  the  Constitution  was  sent  out 
to  the  people,  to  the  moment  when  he  put  his  hand  to  that  last 
paper  in  which  he  addressed  his  countrymen,  the  Union — the 
Union  was  the  great  object  of  his  thoughts.  In  that  first  letter 
he  tells  them  that,  to  him  and  his  brethren  of  the  convention, 
union  appears  to  be  the  greatest  interest  of  every  true  American ; 
and,  in  that  last  paper,  he  conjures  them  to  regard  that  unity 
of  government,  which  constitutes  them  one  people,  as  the  very 


*  See  Exercis*'  LXXXVI 


380  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES. 

palladium'  jf  their  prosperity  and  safety,  and  the  security  of 
liberty  itself. 

2.  He  regarded  the  union  of  these  states,  not  so  much  as  one 
of  our  blessings,  as  the  great  treasure-house  which  contained 
them  all.  Here,  in  his  judgment,  was  the  great  magazine  of 
all  our  means  of  yt  "»sperity ;  here,  as  he  thought,  and  as  every 
American  still  thinks,  are  deposited  all  our  animating  prospects, 
all  our  solid  hopes  for  future  greatness.  He  has  taught  us  to 
maintain  this  Union,  not  by  seeking  to  enlarge  the  powers  of  the 
government,  on  the  one  hand,  nor  by  surrendering  them,  on  (he 
other;  but  by  an  administration  of  them,  at  once  firm  and  mode- 
rate, adapted  for  objects  truly  national,  and  carried  on  in  a  spirit 
of  justice  and  equity. 

3.  The  extreme  solicitude  for  the  preservation  of  the  Union, 
at  all  times  manifested  by  him,  shows  not  only  the  opinion  he 
entertained  of  its  importance,  but  his  clear  perception  of  those 
causes  which  were  likely  to  spring  up  to  endanger  it,  and  which, 
if  once  they  should  overthrow  the  present  system,  would  leave 
little  hope  of  any  future  beneficial  reiinion.  Of  all  the  pre- 
sumptions indulged  by  presumptuous  man,  that  is  one  of  the 
rashest,  which  looks  for  the  repeated  and  favorable  opportunities 
for  the  deliberate  establishment  of  a  united  government  over 
distinct  and  widely  extended  communities. 

4.  Such  a  thing  has  happened  once  in  human  affairs,  and  but 
once ;  the  event  stands  out  as  a  prominent  exception  to  all  ordi- 
nary history;  and,  unless  we  suppose  ourselves  running  into  an 
age  of  miracles,  we  may  not  expect  its  repetition.  Washington, 
therefore,  could  regard,  and  did  regard,  nothing  as  of  paramount 
political  interest,  but  the  integrity  of  the  Union  itself.  With 
a  united  government,  well  administered,  he  saw  we  had  nothing 
to  fear;  and  without  it,  nothing  to  hope.  The  sentiment  is  just, 
and  its  momentous  truth  should  solemnly  impress  the  whole 
country. 

5.  If  we  might  regard  our  country  as  personated  in  the  spirit 
of  Washington,  if  we  might  consider  him  as  representing  her, 
in  her  past  renown,  her  present  prosperity,  and  her  future  career, 
and  as,  in  that  character,  demanding  of  us  all  to  account  for 


RHETORICAL    READER. 


381 


mr  conduct,  as  political  men  or  as  private  citizens,  hoAV  should 
he  answer  him  who  has  ventured  to  talk  of  disunion  and  dis- 
niembcrment?  How  should  he  answer  him  who  dwells  per- 
petually on  local  interests,  and  fans  every  kindling  flame  of  local 
prejudice  ?  How  should  he  answer  him  who  would  array  State 
against  State,  interest  against  interest,  and  party  against  party, 
careless  of  the  continuance  of  that  unity  of  government  which 
"institutes  us  one  people  ? 

6.  The  political  prosperity  which  this  country  has  attained, 
anj  which  it  now  enjoys,  it  has  acquired  mainly  through  the 
instrumentality  of  the  present  government.  While  this  agent 
continues,  the  capacity  of  attaining  to  still  higher  degrees  of 
prosperity  exists  also.  We  have,  while  this  lasts,  a  political  life 
capable  of  beneficial  exertion,  with  power  to  resist  or  overcome 
misfortunes,  to  sustain  us  against  the  ordinary  accidents  of  human 
aiFairs,  and  to  promote,  by  active  efforts,  every  public  interest. 
But  dismemberment  strikes  at  the  very  being  which  preserves 
the  faculties.  It  would  lay  its  rude  and  ruthless  hand  on  this 
great  agent  itself.  It  would  sweep  away,  not  only  what  we  pos- 
sess, but  all  the  power  of  regaining  lost,  or  acquiring  new  pos- 
sessions. It  would  leave  the  country,  not  only  bereft  of  its 
prosperity  and  happiness,  but  without  limbs,  or  organs,  or  facul- 
ties, by  which  to  exert  itself  hereafter  in  the  pursuit  of  that 
prosperity  and  happiness. 

7.  Other  misfortunes  may  be  borne,  or  their  effects  overcome, 
Ef  disastrous  war  should  sweep  our  commerce  from  the  ocean, 
another  generation  may  renew  it;  if  it  exhaust  our  treasury, 
future  industry  may  replenish  it ;  if  it  desolate  and  lay  waste 
our  fields,  still,  under  a  new  cultivation,  they  will  grow  green 
agai  1,  and  ripen  to  future  harvests.  It  were  but  a  trifle,  even 
if  the  wall  of  yonder  capitol  were  to  crumble,  if  its  lofty  pillars 
should  fall,  and  its  gorgeous  decorations  be  all  covered  by  the 
dust  of  the  valley.  All  these  might  be  rebuilt.  But  who  shall 
reconstruct  the  fabric  of  demolished  government  ?  Who  shall 
rear  again  the  well  proportioned  columns  of  constitutional  liberty  ? 
Who  shall  frame  together  the  skillful  architecture  which  unites 
national  sovereignty  with  State  rights,  individual  security,  and 
public  prosperity  ? 


382  SANDERS'     UNION    SERIES. 

8.  No ;  if  these  columns  fall,  they  will  be  raised  not  again. 
Like  the  Coliseum*  and  the  Parthenon,'  they  will  be  destined  to 
a  mournful,  a  melancholy  immortality.  Bitterer  tears,  however, 
will  flow  over  them  than  ever  were  shed  over  the  monuments  of 
Roman  or  Grecian  artj  they  will  be  the  remnants  of  a  more 
glorious  edifice  than  Greece  or  Rome  ever  saw — the  edifice  of 
constitutional  American  liberty  I 


EXERCISE  CXIV. 
THE   MILL. 


M.  BLTA  WOOD. 


Don't  you  remember,  Lill, 

The  mill  by  the  old  hill  side, 
Where  we  used  to  go  in  the  summer  days 

And  watch  the  foamy  tide  ? 
And  throw  the  leaves  of  the  rocking  beech 

On  its  surface,  smooth  and  bright ; 
When  they'd  float  away  like  emeralds, 

In  a  flood  of  golden  light  ? 


And  the  miller,  Lill,  with  slouchy  cap, 

And  eyes  of  mildest  grey  ; 
Plodding  about  his  dusty  work. 

Singing  the  livelong  day, 
And  the  coat  that  hung  on  the  rusty  nail, 

With  many  a  motley  patch, 
By  the  rude  old  door,  with  broken  sill, 

And  string  and  wooden  latch. 


And  the  water-wheel,  with  its  giant  arms 

Dashing  the  beaded  spray, 
And  pulling  the  weeds  from  the  sand  below, 

That  it  tossed  in  scorn  away. 


RHETORICAL     READER.  383 

The  sleepers,  too,  bearded  and  old, 

Frowning  over  the  tide; 
Defying  the  waves,  while  the  chinks  of  Time 
Were  made  in  the  old  mill's  side. 

Well,  Li  11,  the  mill  is  torn  away, 

And  a  factory,  dark  and  high. 
Looms  like  a  tower,  and  pufts  its  smoke 

Over  the  clear  blue  sky. 
And  the  stream  is  turned  away,  above — 

The  bed  of  the  river  is  baie; 
The  beech  is  withered,  bough  and  trunk, 

Aad  stands  like  a  spectre  there. 

The  miller,  too,  has  gone  to  rest ; — 

He  sleeps  in  the  vale  below  ; 
They  made  his  grave  in  the  winter  time, 

Down  where  the  willows  grow. 
But  now  the  boughs  are  green  again, 

And  the  winds  are  soft  and  still ; 
I  send  you  a  sprig,  to  mind  you,  Lill, 

Of  me,  and  the  rude  old  mill. 


EXERCISE  CXV. 

Nathaniel  Parkek  Willis  is  a  native  of  Portlaad,  in  the  state  of  Maine. 
He  was  born  in  January,  1807.  He  had  no  small  reputation  as  a  poet,  even 
before  he  left  college.  He  afHrwards  spent  much  time  abroad,  and  gave 
such  a  record  of  his  observations  as  showed  no  want  of  penetration,  as  an 
observer  of  men  and  manners,  and  no  want  of  wit  in  making  his  observations 
known.  He  is,  indeed,  a  very  versatile  writer:  developing  at  pleasure,  and 
often  with  ssurprising  effect,  not  only  those  lighter  motives  that  lie  but  little 
below  the  surface  of  the  social  stream,  but,  also,  those  deeper  sources  of 
human  conduct  and  character,  out  of  which  spring  the  great  events  and 
issues  of  life.  His  delineations  of  Scripture  scenes  and  characters  are  espe- 
cially fine.     Take,  as  a  specimen,  the  following. 


884  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES. 

HAGAR  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 


The  morning  broke.     Light  stole  upon  the  clouds 
With  a  strange  beauty.     Earth  received  again 
Its  garment  of  a  thousand  dyes ;  and  leaves, 
And  delicate  blossoms,  and  the  painted  flowers, 
And  everything  that  bendeth  to  the  dew. 
And  stirreth  with  the  daylight,  lifted  up 
Its  beauty  to  the  breath  of  that  sweet  morn. 

II. 

All  things  are  dark  to  sorrow ;  and  the  light 
And  loveliness,  and  fragrant  air  were  sad 
To  the  dejected  Hagar.     The  moist  earth 
Was  pouring  odors  from  its  spicy  pores. 
And  the  young  birds  were  singing  as  if  life 
Were  a  new  thing  to  them ;  but  music  came 
Upon  her  ear  like  discord,  and  she  felt 
That  pang  of  the  unreasonable  heart, 
That,  bleeding  amid  things  it  loved  so  well, 
Would  have  some  sign  of  sadness  as  they  pass. 
She  stood  at  Abraham's  tent.     Her  lips  were  pressed 
Till  the  blood  started ;  and  the  wandering  veins 
Of  her  transparent  forehead  were  swelled  out, 
As  if  her  pride  would  burst  them.     Her  dark  eye 
Was  clear  and  tearless,  and  the  light  of  heaven, 
Which  made  its  language  legible,  shot  back. 
From  her  long  lashes,  as  it  had  been  flame.  * 

III. 
Her  noble  boy  stood  by  her,  with  his  hand 
Clasped  in  her  own,  and  his  round,  delicate  feet, 
Scarce  trained  to  balance  on  the  tented  floor. 
Sandaled  for  journeying.     He  had  looked  up 
Into  his  mother's  face,  until  he  caught 
The  spirit  there,  and  his  young  heart  was  swelling 


RHETORICAL    READER.  S^5 

Beneath  his  dimpled  bosom,  and  his  form 
Straightened  up  proudly  in  his  tiny  wrath, 
As  if  his  light  proportions  would  have  swelled, 
Had  they  but  matched  his  spirit,  to  the  man. 

IV. 
Why  bends  the  patriarch  as  he  cometh  now 
Upon  his  staff  so  wearily  ?     His  beard 
Is  low  upon  his  breast,  and  high  his  brow. 
So  written  with  the  converse  of  his  Grod, 
Beareth  the  swollen  vein  of  agony. 
His  lip  is  quivering,  and  his  wonted  step 
Of  vigor  is  not  there ;  and,  though  the  morn 
Is  passing  fair  and  beautiful,  he  breathes 
Its  freshness  as  if  it  were  a  pestilence. 

V. 

He  gave  to  her  the  water  and  the  bread, 
But  spoke  no  word,  and  trusted  not  himself 
To  look  upon  her  face,  but  laid  his  hand, 
In  silent  blessing,  on  the  fair-haired  boy, 
And  left  her  to  her  lot  of  loneliness. 

VI. 

Should  Hagar  weep  ?     May  slighted  woman  turn^ 
And,  as  a  vine  the  oak  hath  shaken  off, 
Bend  lightly  to  her  leaning  trust  again  ? 
0,  no  !  by  all  her  loveliness — by  all 
That  makes  life  poetry  and  beauty,  no ! 
Make  her  a  slave ;  steal  from  her  rosy  cheek 
By  needless  jealousies ;  let  the  last  star 
Leave  her  a  watcher  by  your  couch  of  pain ; 
Wrong  her  by  petulance,  suspicion,  all 
That  makes  her  cup  a  bitterness — ^yet  give 
One  evidence  of  love,  and  earth  has  not 
An  emblem  of  devotedness  like  hers. 
But,  oh  !  estrange  her  once — it  boots  not  how~~^ 

17  6R 


386  SANDERS'     UNION    SERIElf. 

By  wrong  or  silence — anything  that  tells 
A  change  has  come  upon  your  tenderness, — 
And  there  is  not  a  feeling  out  of  Heav«n 
Her  pride  o'ermastereth  not. 

VII. 
She  went  her  way  with  a  strong  step  and  slow— 
Her  pressed  lip  arched,  and  her  clear  eye  undimmcd, 
As  if  it  were  a  diamond,  and  her  form 
Borne  proudly  up,  as  if  her  heart  breathed  through. 
Her  child  kept  on  in  silence,  though  she  pressed 
His  hand  till  it  was  pained  j  for  he  had  read 
The  dark  look  of  his  mother,  and  the  seed 
Of  a  stem  nation  had  been  breathed  upon. 

VIII. 

The  morning  passed,  and  Asia's  sun  rode  up 
In  the  clear  heaven,  and  every  beam  was  heat. 
The  cattle  of  the  hills  were  in  the  shade. 
And  the  bright  plumage  of  the  Orient  lay 
On  beating  bosoms  in  her  spicy  trees. 
It  was  an  hour  of  rest !  but  Hagar  found 
No  shelter  in  the  wilderness,  and  on 
She  kept  her  weary  way,  until  the  boy 
Huns:  down  his  head,  and  opened  his  parched  lips 
For  water ;  but  she  could  not  give  it  him. 

IX. 

She  laid  him  down  beneath  the  sultry  sky, — 
For  it  was  better  than  the  close,  hot  breath 
Of  the  thick  pines, — and  tried  to  comfort  him ; 
But  he  was  sore  athirst,  and  his  blue  eyes 
Were  dim  and  blood-shot,  and  he  could  not  know 
Why  God  denied  him  water  in  the  wild. 

X. 

She  sat  a  little  longer,  and  he  grew 
ij^hastly  and  faint,  as  if  he  would  have  died, 


RHETORICAL     READER.  3^7 

It  was  too  much  for  her.     She  Hfted  him, 

And  bore  him  further  on,  and  laid  his  head 

Beneath  the  shadow  of  a  desert  shrub ; 

And,  shrouding  up  her  face,  she  went  away, 

And  sat  to  watch,  where  he  could  see  her  not, 

Till  he  should  die;  and,  watching  him,  she  mourned:  — 

f  XI. 

"  God  stay  thee  in  thine  agony,  my  boy  I 
T  cannot  see  thee  die ;  I  cannot  brook 

Upon  thy  brow  to  look. 
And  see  death  settle  on  my  cradle  joy. 
How  have  I  drunk  the  light  of  thy  blue  eye  I 

And  could  I  see  thee  die  ? 

XII. 

**  i  did  not  dream  of  this  when  thou  wast  straying, 
Like  an  unbound  gazelle,  among  the  flowers ; 

Or  wiling  the  soft  hours. 
By  the  rich  gush  of  water-sources  playing, 
Then  sinking  weary  to  thy  smiling  sleep, 

So  beautiful  and  deep. 

XIII. 

"  Oh,  no  I  and  when  I  watched  by  thee  the  while, 
And  saw  thy  bright  lip  curling  in  thy  dream. 

And  thought  of  the  dark  stream 
In  my  own  land  of  Egypt,  the  far  Nile, 
How  prayed  I  that  my  father's  land  might  be 

An  heritage  for  thee  I 

XIV. 

"Ana  now  the  grave  for  its  cold  breast  hath  won  thee  I 
And  thy  white,  delicate  limbs  the  earth  will  press  * 
And,  oh  !  my  last  caress 


9^  SANDERS      UNION    SERIES. 

Must  feel  thee  cold ;  for  a  chill  hand  is  on  thee. 
How  can  I  leave  my  boy,  so  pillowed  there 
Upon  his  clustering  hair  I" 

XV. 

She  stood  beside  the  well  her  God  had  given 
To  gush  in  that  deep  wilderness,  and  bathed    • 
The  forehead  of  her  child  until  he  laughed 
In  his  reviving  happiness,  and  lisped 
His  infant  thought  of  gladness  at  the  sight 
Of  the  cool  plashing  of  his  mother's  hand. 


EXERCISE  CXVL 

Thomas  B.  Shaw,  author  of  the  following  just  and  able  sketch,  has  been 
engaged  for  some  years  as  "  Professor  of  English  Literature  in  the  Imperial 
Alexander  Lyceum  of  St.  Petersburg."  The  piece,  given  below,  is  abridged 
from  his  "  Outlines  of  English  Literature,"  a  work  remarkable  for  acute, 
large,  and  profound  observation,  liberal  views  of  literary  men,  and  a  spirit 
and  power  of  criticism  honorable  to  his  office  as  a  public  instructor. 

SAMUEL  JOHNSON. 

THOKAS  B.  SHAW. 

1.  The  greatest  figure,  in  this  period  of  literary  history,  is 
undoubtedly  Samuel  Johnson.  As  a  writer,  he  is  the  very 
incarnation  oi good  sense;  and.  as  a  man,  he  was  an  example  of 
so  high  a  degree  of  virtue,  magnanimity,  and  self-sacrifice,  that 
he  has  been  justly  placed,  by  a  profound  modern  speculator, 
an  ong  the  heroes  of  his  country's  annals. 

2.  He  was  the  son  of  a  poor  provincial  bookseller,  and  was 
born  at  Litchfield,  September  18th,  1709:*  affording  another 
testimony  of  that  truth  so  often  exemplified  in  the  history  of 
literature,  and  so  pithily  expressed  by  an  old  writer,^ — "  That  no 
freat  work,  or  worthy  praise  and  memory^  hut  came  out  of  poor 
cradles t     He  was  afflicted,  even  from  his  earliest  years,  with  a 

*  Died  in  London,  December  13th,  1784. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  889 

scrofulous  disorder,  which  disfigured  a  person  naturally  awkward 
and  ungainly,  and  this  disorder  was  probably  connected  with 
another  and  more  terrible  one,  w.iich  renders  it  still  more  won- 
derful how  he  could  have  ever  at+ained  to  such  a  degree  of  just 
reputation,  as  he  afterwards  earned.  This  was  a  constitutional 
tendency  to  melancholy — a  *' vik  melancholy,"  to  use  his  own 
touch'.Qg  words,  "  which  has  kept  me  mad  half  my  life,  or,  ai 
least,  not  sober." 

3.  The  earlier  part, — nay,  by  far  the  greater  part, — of  John 
son's  career  was  passed  in  obscure  and  apparently  hopeless  strug- 
gles with  want  and  indigence;  and,  however  these  may  have 
enlarged  his  knowledge  of  human  life,  or  fortified  his  powers  of 
industry  and  reflection,  they  only  place  in  a  higher  elevation  the 
virtue  of  the  man,  and  the  intellectual  vigor  of  the  great  scholar. 
He  passed  some  time  at  Pembioke  College,  Oxfoid;  but  his 
father's  misfortunes  compelled  him  to  leave  the  University  with- 
out a  degree.  To  the  aspirant  after  literary  fame,  to  him  who 
takes  a  wise  pleasure  in  tracing  tb^  struggles  of  genius  to  emerge 
from  a  sea  of  difficulties,  few  things  are  more  delightful  or  more 
salutary  than  to  follow  step  by  st^p  the  commencement  of  John 
son's  career : — 

"Slow  rises  worth  by  poverty  oppressed  1" 

4.  Poor,  independent,  ambitious,  conscious  of  his  own  powers, 
he  adopted  the  desperate,  yet  natural  resolution  of  launching  on 
the  broad  ocean  of  Loudon  society,  and  traveled  up  to  the 
capital  in  company  with  his  friend  and  former  pupil,  David 
Garrick,  who  was  destined  afterv/ards  to  obtain,  on  the  stage, 
a  reputation  as  great  as  that  ultimately  acquired  in  literature 
by  his  companion.  Johnson  now  commenced  the  profession 
of  author,  obtaining  a  scanty  and  precarious  subsistence  by 
translating  and  writing  task-work  for  the  booksellers,  and 
principally  employed  as  a  contributor  to  the  "Gentleman's 
Magazine." 

5.  Johnson's  style  during  the  whole  of  his  career  was  exceed- 
ingly peculiar  and  characteristic,  boch  in  its  beauties  and  defects  • 


390  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES. 

and,  when  he  arrived  at  eminence,  may  be  said  to  have  produced 
a  revolution  in  the  manner  of  writing  in  English.  It  is,  in  the 
highest  degree,  pompous,  sonorous,  and,  to  use  a  happy  expres- 
sion of  Coleridge,  hi/per-latimstic  :*  running  into  perpetual 
antithesis ,f  and  balancing  period  against  period  with  an  almost 
rhythmical  I  regularity,  which  at  once  fills  and  fatigues  the  ear. 
The  great  deficiency  of  the  style  is  want — not  of  ease,  as  has  been 
anjujtly  supposed,  for  Johnson's  strong  and  nervous  intellect 
wielded  its  polished  and  ponderous  weapon  with  perfect  mastery 
and  freedom, — but  of  that  familiar  flexibility  which  is  best 
adapted  to  the  general  course  of  disquisition. 

6.  In  1738  appeared  the  admirable  satire  entitled  "  London," 
a  revival  of  the  thirteenth  Satire  of  Juvenal,  §  in  which  the 
topics  of  the  Roman  poet  are  applied  with  surprising  freedom, 
animation,  and  felicity,  to  English  manners,  and  the  corruptions 
of  modern  London  society.  After  the  satire  of  "  London," 
Johnson  published  his  "  Life  of  Savage,"  the  biography  of  a  poet 
whose  strange  and  melancholy  story  formed  an  admirable  sub- 
ject for  Johnson's  dignified  and  moral  pen ;  and,  in  1749,  ap- 
peared the  Pendant,  or  companion-picture  to  the  "  London,"  in 
a,  similar  modernization  of  the  tenth  Satire  of  Juvenal. 

7.  Between  the  years  1750  and  1752,  Johnson  was  occupied 
in  the  composition  of  a  journal,  or  series  of  periodical  essays, 
entitled  "The  Rambler,"  founded  upon  the  model  of  the 
"  Spectators"  and  "  Tatlers"  which  Addison  and  Steele  had 
employed  so  usefully,  as  a  vehicle  of  moral  improvement.  But, 
in  Johnson's  hands,  this  kind  of  writing  was  neither  so  popular 
nor  so  delightful  as  it  had  been  in  those  of  the  easy  and  elegant 
essayists  whom  we  have  just  mentioned.  Knowledge,  good 
sense,  sincerity,  he  possessed,  at  least,  in  as  high  a  degree  as  his 

*  Pai  taking  too  much  of  Latin. 

f  For  an  explanation  of  thia  word,  see  Note  on  Exercise  LXXXII. 

I  Rhythmical  (rlth^  ml  cat),  pertaining  to  rhythm  or  cadence ;  keep 
ing  time. 

g  Born  about  a.  d.  38,  and  died  about  the  year  llfi.  Of  his  works, 
sixteen  satires  are  extant:  all  inveighing  against  the  abominable  vices 
of  the  times,  and  sometimes  in  terms  gross  as  the  things  denounced. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  391 

predecessors ;  but  the  reader  observes  a  lack  of  ease,  a  want  of 
light  and  shade,  for  which  not  all  the  imposing  qualities  of 
Johnson's  mind  can  compensate.  Addison  and  Steele*  talk; 
Johnson  declaims.  The  former  address  you  like  virtuous,  well- 
bred  man  of  the  world,  whose  scholastic  acquirements  have 
ueen  h-'irmonized  and  digested  by  long  intercourse  with  polished 
society;  Johnson  rather  like  a  university  professor,  who  retains, 
in  the  world,  something  of  the  stiflfness  of  the  chair. 

8  In  1755  appeared  the  celebrated  "Dictionary  of  the 
English  Language,"  on  which  Johnson  had  been  laboriously 
engaged  during  a  period  of  about  seven  years.  This  work  is  a 
glorious  monument  of  learning,  energy,  and  perseverance ;  and, 
when  viewed  as  the  production  of  a  single  unaided  scholar,  is, 
perhaps,  one  of  the  most  signal  triumphs  of  literary  activity. 
In  1759  appeared  the  famous  oriental  tale  entitled  "  Rasselas," 
a  work  of  no  great  length,  but  exhibiting  all  the  peculiarities 
of  Johnson's  manner.  This  production,  however,  is  not  to  be 
read  as  a  novel.,  but  as  a  series  of  moral  essays  on  a  vast  multi- 
plicity of  subjects,  full  of  sense,  acuteness,  and  originality  of 
thought. 

9.  His  *'  Lives  of  the  Poets"  was  originally  composed  at 
the  instance  of  a  bookseller,  in  order  to  be  prefixed  to  a  collec- 
tion of  specimens  of  this  branch  of  English  literature.  "The 
Lives  of  the  Poets,"  when  read  with  due  allowance,  will  un 
doubtedly  remain  a  classical  work  in  England.  We  shall  not 
easily  find  so  vast  an  accumulation  of  ingenious,  solid,  and  acute 
observations,  so  rich  a  treasure  of  noble  moral  lessons,  or  so  fine 
and  manly  a  tone  of  writing  and  thinking,  as  this  volume  con 
tains.  He,  also,  published  an  edition  of  Shakspeare.  The 
character  of  Shakspeare's  genius,f  given  in  the  Preface,  is  a 
noble  specimen  of  panegyric.  As  a  moralist,  as  a  painter  of 
men  and  minds,  Johnson  has  done  Shakspeare,  at  least,  as  fa; 

*  Richard  Steele,  the  projector  of  "  The  Tatler,"  was  born  in  Dublin 
in  1671.  In  1711  he  began,  in  connection  with  Addison,  "The  Spec- 
tator," and,  in  171«,  "  The  Guardian."  He  died  in  1729.  For  a  sketch 
yi  Addison,  see  Exercise  CXXIIL 

t  See  Exercise  XXVII I 


392  SANDERS'     UNION     SERIES. 

as  any  man  covld,  ample  justice ;  but,  in  his  judgment  of  the 
great  creative  poet's  more  romantic  manifestations,  he  exhibits 
an  insensibility  which  was  partly  the  result  of  his  education  and 
of  the  age  in  which  he  lived,  and  partly,  without  doubt,  *he 
consequence  of  the  peculiar  constitution  of  his  mind. 

10.  It  was  his  positivism^  to  borrow  a  most  expressive  French 
word,  that  gave  him  such  an  extraordinary  and  well-deserved 
supremacy,  as  a  conversationist;  and  it  was  this  mixture  of 
learning,  benevolence,  wit,  virtue  and  good  sense,  that  makes 
the  admirable  portrait  of  him,  in  the  memoirs  of  his  friend  and 
disciple  Boswell,*  the  most  interesting  and  living  portrait  which 
literature  exhibits,  of  a  great  and  good  man. 


EXERCISE  CXVII. 


The  Letter  which  forms  the  present  Exercise  is  a  very  celebrated 
production.  The  circumstances  which  called  it  forth,  sufficiently  appear 
in  the  letter  itself. 

Philip  Dormer  Stanhope,  Earl  of  Chesterfield,  was  bom  in  London, 
September  22d,  1694,  and  died  March  24tb,  1773.  He  was  distinguished  for 
courtly  manners,  sparkling  wit,  great  skill  as  a  diplomat,  and  assiduous 
attention  to  business,  for  which  he  had  decided  talents.  He  has,  also,  a  wide 
reputation,  as  the  author  of  a  aeries  of  letters  addressed  to  his  son,  of  which 
Johnson  remarks — "  Take  out  the  immorality,  and  it  thould  be  put  into  the 
hands  of  every  young  gentleman." 

LETTER  TO  LORD  CHESTERFIELD. 
My  Lord : 

1.  I  have  been  lately  informed  by  the  proprietor  of  the 
*'  World,"  that  two  papers,  in  which  my  "  Dictionary'^  is  recom- 
mended to  the  public,  were  written  by  your  lordship.  To  be  so 
distinguished  is  an  honor,  which,  being  very  little  accustomed 
to  favors  from  the  great,  I  know  not  well  how  to  receive,  or  in 
what  terms  to  acknowledge. 

2.  When,  upon  some  slight  encouragement,  I  first  visited 
your  lordship,  I  was  overpowered,  like  the  rest,  of  mankind,  by 

*  See  Exercise  CXVIII. 


RUETORIOAL    READER.  3VS 

the  enchantment  of  your  address,  and  could  not  forbear  to  wish 
that  I  might  boast  myself  le  vatnqueur  da  oainqueu?-  de  la  terre* — 
that  I  might  obtain  that  regard  for  which  I  saw  the  world  con- 
tending; but  I  found  my  attendance  so  little  encouraged,  that 
neither  pride  nor  modesty  would  suffer  me  to  continue  it.  When 
I  had  once  addressed  your  lordship  in  public,  I  had  exhaustcMl 
all  the  art  of  pleasing,  which  a  retired  and  uncourtly  scholar  can 
possess.  I  had  done  all  that  I  couid  j  and  no  man  is  well  pleised 
to  have  his  all  neglected,  be  it  ever  so  little. 

8.  Seven  years,  my  lord,  have  now  passed  since  I  waited  in 
your  outward  rooms,  or  was  repulsed  from  your  door ;  during 
which  time  I  have  been  pushing  on  my  work  through  difficul- 
ties, of  which  it  is  useless  to  complain,  and  have  brought  it  at 
last  to  the  verge  of  publication,  M'ithout  one  act  of  assistance, 
one  word  of  encouragement,  or  one  smile  of  favor.  Such  treat- 
ment I  did  not  expect,  for  I  never  had  a  patron  before. 

The  Shepherd  in  Virgil  grew  at  last  acquainted  with  Love, 
and  found  him  a  native  of  the  rocks. 

4.  Is  not  a  patron,  my  lord,  one  who  looks  with  unconcern 
on  a  man  struggling  for  life  in  the  water,  and,  when  he  has 
reached  ground,  encumbers  him  with  help  ?  The  notice  which 
you  have  been  pleased  to  take  of  my  labors,  had  it  been  early, 
had  been  kind;  but  it  has  been  delayed  till  I  am  indifferent,  and 
cannot  enjoy  it;  till  I  am  solitary,  and  cannot  impart  it;  till  I 
am  known,  and  do  not  want  it.  I  hope  it  is  no  very  cynical 
asperity  not  to  confess  obligations  where  no  benefit  has  been 
received,  or  to  be  unwilling  that  the  public  should  consider  me 
as  owing  that  to  a  patron,  which  Providence  has  enabled  mo  to 
do  for  myself. 

5.  Having  carried  on  my  work  thus  far  with  so  little  obliga- 
tion to  any  favorer  of  learning,  I  shall  not  be  disappointed  though 
I  should  conclude  it,  if  less  be  possible,  with  less ;  for  T  have 
been  long  wakened  from  that  dream  of  hope,  in  which  I  once 
boasted  myself  with  so  much  exultation,  my  lord — Your  lord 
chip's  most  humble,  most  obedient  servant,      Sam.  Johnson. 

*  The  conqueror  of  the  conqueror  of  the  world. 
17*  R 


304  SANDERS'     UNION     SERIES. 


EXERCISE  CXVIII. 

Jambs  Bos  well,  fbe  fatuous  biographer  of  Doctor  Samuel  Johnson,  Wfcl 
born  in  Edinburgh  in  the  year  1740.  He  died  in  London,  June  19th,  1795. 
After  a  course  of  stuiy  in  civil  law,  he  traveled  over  the  continent.  Jle,  also, 
visited  Corsica  to  sec  General  Paoli,  then  fighting  for  freedom  against  Genoa. 
So  taken  was  he  with  Corsica  and  Paoli,  that  he  received  the  nickrames 
"Paoli  Boawrll"  and  •'  Corsica  Boswell."  His  journal  of  his  tour  to  Cirsica 
iras  received  with  considerable  favor.  In  1763  he  became  acquainted  with 
Or.  Johnson,  whom  he  seems  ever  afterwards  to  have  idolized.  In  company 
jfith  Johnson,  he  made  a  tour  to  the  Western  Isles  of  Scotland,  a  Journal 
f>f  which,  by  the  former,  appeared  in  1776.  Notwithstanding  the  pungent 
portrait  which  follows,  we  think  with  a  recent  writer  that  "  he  could  not  have 
oeen  the  most  contemptible  of  men,  and  the  affection  with  which  he  inspired 
some  of  the  greatest  wits  of  his  time,  obliges  us  to  believe  that  there  was  in 
him  a  vein  of  good  sense  and  good  fellowship." 

PORTRAIT  OF  JAMES  BOSWELL. 

MACADLAT.* 

1.  Mauy  of  the  jreatest  men  that  ever  lived,  have  written 
biography.  Boswell  was  one  of  the  smallest  men  that  ever  lived ; 
and  he  has  beaten  thorn  all.  He  was,  if  we  are  to  give  any  credit 
to  his  own  account,  or  to  the  united  testimony  of  all  who  knew 
him,  a  man  of  the  meanest  and  feeblest  intellect.  Johnson 
described  him  as  a  fellow  who  had  missed  his  only  chance  of 
immortality,  by  not  having  been  alive  when  the  Dunciadf  was 
written.  Beauclerk  used  his  name  as  a  proverbial  expression 
for  a  bore.  He  was  the  laughing-stock  of  the  whole  of  that 
brilliant  society  which  has  owed  to  him  the  greater  part  of  its 
fame.  He  was  always  laying  himself  at  the  feet  of  some  eminent 
man,  and  begging  to  be  spit  upon  and  trampled  upon. 
'  2.  He  was  always  earning  some  ridiculous  nickname,  and 
then  "  binding  it  as  a  crown  unto  him," — not  merely  in  meta- 
phor, but  literally.  He  exhibited  himself  at  the  Shakspeare 
Jubilee,  to  all  the  crowd  which  filled  Stratford-oo-Avon,  with  a 
placard  around  his  hat  bearing  the  inscription  of  "  Corsica 
BosWEiiL."     In  his  Tour,  he  proclaimed  to  all  the  world,  that 

*  See  Note  on  Macaulay,  over  Exercise  CI. 

f  The  Dunciad  is  a  celebrated  satirical  work  by  Alexander  Pope 
See  Exercise  CXLVIIL 


RHETORICAL    READER.  395 

at  Edinburgh  he  was  known  by  the  appellation   of  "  Paoli 

BOSWELL." 

3.  Servile  and  impertinent — shallow  and  pedantic — a  bigot 
and  a  sot — bloated  with  family  pride,  and  eternally  blustering 
about  the  dignity  of  a  born  gentleman,  yet  stooping  to  be  a  tale- 
bearer, and  eaves-dropper,  a  common  butt  in  the  taverns  of 
1  iundon — so  curious  to  know  everybody  who  was  talked  ab(  ut, 
that,  Tory  and  High  Churchman  as  he  was,  he  maneuvered,  we 
have  been  told,  for  an  introduction  to  Tom  Paine — so  vain  of 
tht  most  childish  distinctions,  that,  when  he  had  been  to  court, 
he  drove  to  the  office  where  his  book  was  being  printed,  without 
changing  his  clothes,  aud  summoned  all  the  printer's  devils  to 
admire  his  new  ruffles  and  sword ; — such  was  this  man  :  and 
such  he  was  content  and  proud  to  be.  Everything  which 
another  man  would  have  hidden — everything,  the  publication 
of  which  would  have  made  another  man  hang  himself,  was 
matter  of  gay  and  clamorous  exultation  to  his  weak  and  diseased 
mind. 

4.  What  silly  things  he  said — what  bitter  retorts  he  pro- 
voked— how  at  one  place  he  was  troubled  with  evil  presentiments 
which  came  to  nothing — how  at  another  place,  on  waking  from 
a  drunken  doze,  he  read  the  Prayer-book,  and  took  a  hair  of  the 
dog  that  had  bitten  him — how  he  went  to  see  men  hanged,  and 
came  away  maudlin — how  he  added  five  hundred  pounds  to  the 
fortune  of  one  of  his  babies,  because  she  was  not  frightened  at 
Johnson's  ugly  face — ^how  he  was  frightened  out  of  his  wits  at 
sea — aod  how  the  sailors  quieted  him  as  they  would  have  quieted 
k  child— how  tipsy  he  was  at  Lady  Cork's  one  evening,  and  how 
much  his  merriment  annoyed  the  ladies — how  impertinent  he 
was  to  the  Duchess  of  Argyle,  and  with  what  stately  contempt 
she  put  down  his  impertinence — how  Colonel  Macleod  sneered 
'iO  his  face  at  his  impudent  obtrusiveness — how  his  father  a\id 
.,he  very  wife  of  his  bosom  laughed  and  fretted  at  his  fooleries — 
ah  these  things  he  proclaimed  to  all  the  world,  as  if  they  had 
been  subjects  for  pride  and  ostentatious  rejoicing. 

5.  All  the  caprices  of  his  temper,  all  the  illusions  of  his 
vanity,  all  the  hypochondriac  whimsies,  all  his  castles  in  the 


390  SANPERS'    UNION    SERIES. 

nir,  he  displayed  with  a  cool  self-complacency,  a  perfect  uncon- 
sciousoess  that  he  was  making  a  fool  of  himself,  to  which  it  is 
impossible  to  find  a  parallel  in  the  whole  history  of  mankind. 
He  has  used  many  people  ill,  but  assuredly  he  has  used  nobody 
so  ill  as  himself. 

6.  That  such  a  man  should  have  written  one  of  the  best  books 
in  the  world,  is  strange  enough.  But  this  is  not  all.  Many 
persons  who  have  conducted  themselves  foolishly  in  active  life, 
and  whose  conversation  has  indicated  no  superior  powers  of 
mind,  have  written  valuable  books.  Goldsmith  was  very  justly 
described  by  one  of  his  contemporaries,  as  an  inspired  idiot,  and 
by  another  as  a  being 

♦•  Who  wrote  like  an  angel,  and  talked  like  poor  Poll." 

7.  Without  all  the  qualities  which  made  him  the  jest  and  the 
torment  of  those  among  whom  he  lived — without  the  officious- 
ness,  the  inquisitiveness,  the  effrontery,  the  toad-eating,  the 
insensibility  to  all  reproof,  he  never  could  have  produced  so 
excellent  a  book.  He  was  a  slave,  proud  of  his  servitude ;  a 
Paul  Pry,  convinced  that  his  own  curiosity  and  garrulity  were 
virtues ;  an  unsafe  companion,  who  never  scrupled  to  repay  th« 
most  liberal  hospitality  by  the  basest  violation  of  confidence;  a 
man  without  delicacy,  without  shame,  without  sense  enough  to 
know  when  he  was  hurting  the  feelings  of  others,  or  when  he 
was  exposing  himself  to  derision  j  and  because  he  was  all  this^ 
he  has,  in  an  important  department  of  literature,  immeasurabl} 
surpassed  such  writers  as  Tacitus,  Clarendon,  Alfieri,  and  hi.s 
own  idol  Johnson. 

8.  Those  weaknesses  which  most  men  keep  covered  up  in  the 
most  secret  places  of  the  mind,  not  to  be  disclosed  to  the  eye  of 
friendship  or  of  love,  were  precisely  the  weaknesses  which  Bos- 
well  paraded  before  all  the  world.  He  was  perfectly  frank, 
because  the  weakness  of  his  understanding  and  the  tumult  of 
his  spirit,  prevented  him  from  knowing  when  he  made  himself 
ridiculous. 

9.  His  fame  is  great,  and  it  will,  no  doubt,  be  lasting;  but  it 


RHETORICAL     REALER.  397 

is  a  fame  of  a  peculiar  kind,  and,  indeed,  marvelously  resembles 
infamy.  We  remember  no  other  case  in  which  the  world  has 
made  so  great  a  distinction  between  a  book  and  its  author.  In 
general,  the  book  and  the  author  are  considered  as  one.  To 
admire  the  book  is  to  admire  the  author.  The  ease  of  Bosweh 
is  an  exception,  we  think  the  onlt/  exception  to  this  rule.  Hii 
work  is  universally  allowed  to  be  interesting,  instructive,  emi- 
nently original;  yet  it  has  brought  him  nothing  but  contempt. 
All  the  world  reads  it,  all  the  world  delights  in  it;  yet  we  do 
DDt  remember  ever  to  have  read  or  even  to  have  heard  any  ex- 
prc3sion  of  respect  and  admiration  for  the  man  to  whom  we  .w<* 
so  much  instruction  and  amusement. 


EXERCISE  CXIX. 

The  passages  below  are  taken  almost  at  random  from  Boswell's  cele- 
brated biography;  the  object  being  merely  to  show  the  general  cast 
of  the  book,  and  to  afford  a  good  exercise  in  this  kind  of  reading. 

PASSAGES  FROM  BOSWELL'S  LIFE  OF  JOHNSON. 

1.  Mr.  Ogilvie  was  unlucky  enough  to  choose  for  the  topic 
of  his  conversation  the  praises  of  his  native  country.  He  began 
with  saying,  that  there  was  very  rich  land  around  Edinburgh. 
Goldsmith,  who  had  studied  physic  there,  contradicted  this  very 
untruly  with  a  sneering  laugh.  Disconcerted  a  little  by  this, 
Mr.  Ogilvie  then  took  a  new  ground,  where,  I  suppose,  he 
thought  himself  perfectly  safe ;  for  he  observed,  that  Scotland 
had  a  great  many  noble  wild  prospects.  Johnson  :  "  I  believe, 
sir  you  have  a  great  many.  Norway,  too,  has  '  nohle  wild  pros- 
pcrts ;'  and  Lapland  is  remarkable  for  prodigious  '  noble  ^cild 
l^ospectsl'  Uut,  sir,  let  me  tell  you,  the  noblest  prospect 
which  a  Scotchman  ever  sees,  is  the  high-road  that  leadq  him 
to  England !"  This  unexpected  and  pointed  sally  produced  a 
roar  of  applause. 

2.  On  the  14th,  we  had  another  evening  by  ourselves,  at  tho 


^98  SANDERS'     UNION     SERIES. 

Miter.  It  happened  to  be  a  very  rainy  night.  I  made  some 
common-place  observations  on  the  relaxation  of  nerves  and  de- 
pression of  spirits  which  such  weather  occasioned,  adding,  how- 
ever, that  it  was  good  for  the  vegetable  creation.  Johnson,  who 
denied  that  the  temperature  of  the  air  had  any  influence  on  tlie 
human  frame,  answered,  with  a  smile  of  ridicule, — "  Why,  yes. 
sir  J  it  is  good  for  vegefablea,  and  for  the  animals  who  eat  those 
vegetables,  and  for  the  animals  who  eat  those  animals."  This 
observation  of  his  aptly  enough  introduced  a  good  supper,  and 
I  soon  forgot,  in  Johnson's  company,  the  influence  of  a  moist 
atmosphere. 

3.  When  a  gentleman  had  told  him  he  had  bought  a  suit  of 
lace  for  his  lady,  he  said  : — "  Well,  sir;  you  have  done  a  good 
thing  and  a  wise  thing."  "  I  have  done  a  good  thing,"  said  the 
gentleman,  "  but  I  do  not  know  that  I  have  done  a  loise  thing." 
Johnson:  "Yes,  sir;  no  money  is  better  spent  than  what  is 
laid  out  for  domestic  satisfaction.  A  man  is  pleased  that  his 
wife  is  dressed  as  well  as  other  people^  and  a  wife  is  pleased  that 
she  is  dressed." 

4.  This  evening,  while  some  of  the  tunes  of  ordinary  compo- 
sitions were  played  with  no  great  skill,  my  frame  was  agitated, 
and  I  was  conscious  of  a  generous  attachment  to  Dr.  Johnson, 
as  my  preceptor  and  friend,  mixed  with  an  affectionate  regret 
that  he  was  an  old  man.  whom  I  should  probably  lose  in  a  short 
time.  I  thought  I  could  defend  him  at  the  point  of  my  sword. 
My  reverence  and  afi^ection  for  him  were  in  full  glow.  I  said 
to  him,  "  My  dear  sir,  we  must  meet  every  year,  if  you  don't 
quarrel  with  me."  Johnson  :  "  Nay,  sir,  you  are  more  likely 
to  quarrel  with  me,  than  T  with  you.  My  regard  for  you  is 
greater  than  words  can  express ;  but  I  do  not  choose  to  bo 
always  repeating  it;  write  it  down  in  the  first  leaf  of  your 
pocket-book,  and  never  doubt  of  it  again." 

5.  Next  morning,  while  we  were  at  breakfast,  Johnson  gave 
a  very  earnest  recommendation  of  what  he  himself  practiced 
with  the  utmost  conscientiousness:  T  mean  strict  attention  to 
truth,  even  in  the  most  minute  particulars.  "  Accustom  your 
ctiildren,"  said  he,  "constantly  to  this;  if  a  thing  happened  at 


RHETORICAL    READER.  399 

one  window,  and  they,  when  relating  it,  say  that  it  happened  at 
another,  do  not  let  it  pass,  but  instantly  check  them ;  you  do 
not  know  where  the  deviation  from  truth  will  end."  Boswell: 
"  It  may  come  to  the  door :  and,  when,  at  once,  an  account 
is  at  all  varied  in  one  circumstance,  it  may  by  degrees  be  varied 
80  as  to  be  totally  different  from  what  really  happened/'  Our 
lively  l  ostess,  whose  fancy  was  impatient  of  the  rein,  fidgeted 
at  this  and  ventured  to  say, — "  this  is  too  much.  If  Mr.  Jolin- 
jou  should  forbid  me  to  drink  tea,  I  should  comply,  as  I  should 
feel  the  restraint  only  twice  a  day;  but  little  variations  in  nar- 
ratives must  happen  a  thousand  times  a  day,  if  one  is  rot  p'^r 
petually  watching."  Johnson  :  "  Well,  madam,  and  you  ought 
to  be  perpetually  watching  !  It  is  more  from  carelessness  about 
truth  than  from  intentional  lying,  that  there  is  so  much  false- 
hood in  the  world." 

6.  On  Friday,  May  8,  I  dined  with  him  at  Mr.  Langton's. 
I  was  reserved  and  silent,  which  I  suppose  he  perceived,  and 
might  recollect  the  cause.  After  dinner,  when  Mr.  Lang  ton 
was  called  out  of  the  room,  and  we  were  by  ourselves,  he  drew 
his  chair  near  to  mine,  and  said,  in  a  tone  of  conciliating  cour- 
tesy,— "  Well,  how  have  you  done?"  Boswell:  "Sir,  you 
have  made  me  very  uneasy  by  your  behavior  to  me  when  we 
were  last  at  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds's.  You  know,  my  dear  sir,  no 
man  has  a  greater  respect  and  affection  for  you,  or  would  sooner 
go  to  the  end  of  the  world  to  serve  you.  Now,  to  treat  me 
so — ."  He  insisted  that  I  had  interrupted  him,  which  I  assured 
him  was  not  the  case;  and  proceeded, — "  But  why  treat  me  so 
before  people  who  neither  love  you  nor  me?"  Johnson: 
"  V/ell,  I  am  sorry  for  it.  I'll  make  it  up  to  you  twenty  dif 
ferent  ways,  as  you  please."  Boswell  :  "  I  said  to-day  to  Sir 
Joshua,  when  he  observed  that  you  tossed  me  sometimes,  I  deu'l 
care  how  often,  or  how  high  he  tosses  me,  when  only  friends  aie 
present,  for  then  I  fall  upon  soft  ground;  but  I  do  not  .iKe 
falling  on  stones,  which  is  the  case  when  enemies  are  present 
I  think  this  is  a  pretty  good  image,  sir."  Johnson  :  "  Sir,  it 
18  one  of  the  happiest  I  have  ever  heard." 

7.  Johnson  called  the  East  Indians  barbarians.     Boswell: 


100  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES. 

''You  will  except  the  Chinese,  sir?"  Johnson:  "No,  sir i" 
BoswELL  :  "  Have  they  not  arts  ?"  Johnson  :  "  They  havo 
pottery."  Bo  swell  :  "  What  do  you  say  to  the  written  cha- 
racters of  their  language?"  Johnson:  "Sir,  they  have  not 
an  alphabet.  They  have  not  been  able  to  form  what  all  other 
nations  have  formed."  Boswell  :  "  There  is  more  learning 
in  their  language  than  in  any  other,  from  the  immense  number 
of  their  characters."  Johnson  :  "  It  is  only  more  diflScult 
from  its  rudeness  ;  as  there  is  more  labor  in  hewing  down  a  tree 
with  a  stone  than  with  an  ox." 

8.  I  reminded  him  how  heartily  he  and  I  used  to  drink  wine 
together,  when  we  were  first  acquainted ;  and  how  I  used  to 
have  a  headache  after  sitting  up  with  him.  He  did  not  like  to 
have  this  recalled,  or,  j)erliaps,  thinking  that  I  lu)asted  improp- 
erly, resolved  to  have  a  witty  stroke  at  me;  "Nay,  sir,  it  was 
not  the  wine  that  made  your  head  ache,  but  the  sense  I  put  into 
it."  Boswell  :  "  What,  sir,  will  sense  make  the  head  ache  ?" 
Johnson  :  "  Yes,  sir  (with  a  smile),  when  it  is  not  used  to  it." 


EXERCISE  CXX. 

Thomas  Nuttall,  author  of  the  following  splendid  description  of  tor 
Mocking-Bird,  was  born  in  Yorkshire,  England,  in  1786,  and  died  in  Lanca- 
shire, September  10th,  1869.  He  came  to  this  country  about  the  beginning 
of  the  present  century,  and  commenced  a  series  of  researches,  in  natural 
history,  which  obliged  him  to  visit  and  explore  nearly  every  state  in  the 
Union.  From  1822  to  1834,  he  held  the  Professorship  of  Natural  History  in 
Harvard  College.  The  extract  below  is  from  his  "  Manual  of  the  Ornithologv* 
of  the  United  States  and  Canada." 

THE  MOCKING-BIRD. 

THOMAS  NUTIAIX. 

1.  With  the  dawn  of  morning,  while  yet  the  sun  lingers  leloiir 
the  blushing  horizon,  our  sublime  songster,  in  his  native  wild.«, 
mc  anted  on  the  topmost  branch  of  a  tall  bush  or  tree  in  the 
forest,  pours  out  his  admirable  song,  which,  amidst  the  multi 

*  For  an  analysis  of  this  word,  see  Exercise  LXXX. 


RHETOBTOAL    READER.  401 

tudes  of  Dotes  from  all  the  warbling  host,  still  rises  pre-einiDent, 
80  that  his  solo  is  heard  alone,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  musical 
ehoir  appear  employed  in  mere  accompaniments  to  this  grand 
actor  in  the  sublime  opera  of  nature. 

2.  As  if  conscious  of  his  unrivaled  powers  of  song,  and  ani- 
mated by  the  harmony  of  his  own  voice,  his  music  is,  as  it  were, 
accompanied  by  chromatic  dancing  and  expressive  gestures;  he 
spreads  and  closes  his  light  and  fanning  wings,  expands  his 
iilvered  tail,  and,  with  buoyant  gayety  and  enthusiastic  ecstasy, 
h-)  sweeps  around,  and  mounts  and  descends  into  the  air  from 
his  lofty  spray,  as  his  song  swells  to  loudness,  or  dies  away  in 
sinking  whispers. 

3.  While  thus  engaged,  so  various  is  his  talent,  that  it  might 
be  supposed  a  trial  of  skill  from  all  the  assembled  birds  of  the 
country ;  and  so  perfect  are  his  imitations,  that  even  the  sports- 
man is  at  times  deceived,  and  sent  in  quest  of  birds  that  have 
no  existence  around.  The  feathered  tribes  themselves  are 
decoyed  by  the  fancied  call  of  their  mates  j  or  dive  with  fear 
into  the  close  thicket,  at  the  well-feigned  scream  of  the  hawk. 

4.  Soon  reconciled  to  the  usurping  fancy  of  man,  the  mocking- 
bird often  becomes  familiar  with  bis  master ;  playfully  attacks 
him  through  the  bars  of  his  cage,  or  at  large  in  a  room ;  restless 
and  capricious,  he  seems  to  try  every  expedient  of  a  lively 
imagination,  that  may  conduce  to  his  amusement.  Nothing 
escapes  his  discerning  and  intelligent  eye  or  faithful  ear. 

5.  He  whistles,  perhaps,  for  the  dog,  who,  deceived,  runs  to 
meet  his  master ;  the  cries  of  the  chicken  in  distress  bring  out 
the  clucking  mother  to  the  protection  of  her  brood.  The  barking 
of  the  dog,  the  piteous  wailing  of  the  puppy,  the  mewing  of 
the  cat,  the  action  of  a  saw,  or  the  creaking  of  a  wheelbarrow, 
quickly  follow  with  exactness.  He  repeats  a  tune  of  considerable 
length ;  imitates  the  warbling  of  the  Canary,  the  lisping  of  the 
Indigo-bird,  and  the  mellow  whistle  of  the  Cardinal,  in  a  manner 
so  superior  to  the  originals,  that,  mortified  and  astonished,  they 
withdraw  from  his  presence,  or  listen  in  silence,  as  he  continues 
to  triumph  by  renewing  his  efforts. 

2C 


t02  SANDERS'     UNION     SERIES. 

EXERCISE  CXXI. 

The  Lady  of  the  Lake,  the  finest,  perhaps,  of  all  Scott's  poetical 
efforts,  has  for  the  theater  of  its  action  the  country  surrounding  the 
beautiful  Loch  Katrine.  The  feuds  between  the  civilized  Lowlands 
and  the  mountain  districts  inhabited  by  the  Celtic  tribes  furnish  the 
main  matter  of  the  poem.  The  plot  is  exceedingly  interesting :  con- 
sisting, in  part,  of  the  romantic  adventures  of  King  James  V.  (here 
passing  under  the  title  Fitz-James),  "who  delighted  to  traverse  the 
ricinage  of  his  several  palaces,  in  various  disguises,"  and  who,  in  the 
BCene  below,  having  lost  his  way,  suddenly  encounters  Roderick  Dhu, 
the  chief  of  a  Highland  clan  that  had  long  set  at  defiance  the  Lowland 
monarch. 

SCENE  FROM  THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE. 

SIB  WAtTKR  800TT.* 
I. 

With  cautious  step,  and  ear  awake, 
He  climbs  the  crag  and  threads  the  brake  j 
And  not  the  summer  solstice  there 
Tempered  the  midnight  mountain  air, 
But  every  breeze  that  swept  the  wold 
Benumbed  his  drenched  limbs  with  cold. 

In  dread,  in  danger,  and  alone, 
Famished  and  chilled,  through  ways  unknown, 
Tangled  and  steep,  he  journeyed  on ; 
Till,  as  a  rock's  huge  point  he  turned, 
A  watch-fire  close  before  him  burned. 

II. 

Beside  its  embers  red  and  clear, 
Basked,  in  his  plaid,  a  mountaineer; 
And  up  he  sprung,  with  sword  in  hand, — 
"  Thy  name  and  purpose  \     Saxon,  stand  V — 
"  A  stranger." — "  What  dost  thou  require?" 
"  Rest  and  a  guide,  and  food  and  fire. 
My  life's  beset,  my  path  is  lost, 
The  gale  has  chilled  my  limbs  with  frost." 


♦  Sec  Exercise  LXXV.  for  a  comparison  of  Scott  with  Chateaubriand 


RHETORICAL    READER.  403 

III. 

"Art  thou  a  friend  to  Roderick  ?"— "  No."— 
"  Thou  darest  not  call  thyself  a  foe  ?" — 
"  I  dare  !  to  him  and  all  the  band 
He  brings  to  aid  his  murderous  hand.'' 
"  Bold  words  ! — ^but  though  the  beast  of  game 
The  privilege  of  chase  may  claim. 
Though  space  and  law  the  stag  we  lend, 
Ere  hound  we  slip,  or  bow  we  bend, 
Who  ever  recked,  where,  how,  or  when,  , 
The  prowling  fox  was  trapped  and  slain  ? 
Thus  treacherous  scouts, — yet  sure  they  lie, 
Who  say  thou  cam'st  a  secret  spy  V 

IV. 

''■  They  do,  by  Heaven  ! — Come  Roderick  Dhu, 
And  of  his  clan  the  boldest  too, 
And  let  me  but  till  morning  rest, 
I'll  write  the  falsehood  on  their  crest." 
"  If  by  the  blaze  I  mark  aright, 
Thou  bear'st  the  belt  and  spur  of  knight/' 
"  Then  by  these  tokens  may'st  thou  know 
Each  proud  oppressor's  mortal  foe." 

V. 

"  Enough,  enough  j  sit  down  and  share 
A  soldier's  couch,  a  soldier's  fare." 

He  gave  him  of  his  highland  cheer, 
The  hardened  flesh  of  mountain  deer; 
Dry  fuel  on  the  fire  he  laid. 
And  bade  the  Saxon  share  his  plaid ; 
He  tended  him  like  welcome  guest. 
Then  thus  his  further  speech  addressed  ;— 

"  Stranger,  I  am  to  Roderick  Dhu 
A  clansman  born,  a  kinsman  true ; 
Each  word  against  his  honor  spoke 
Demands  of  me  avenging  stroke ; 


104  SAlfDERS'     UNION    SERIES. 

Yet  more, — upon  thy  fate,  'tis  said, 
A  mighty  augury  is  laid. 

VI. 

,  "It  rests  with  me  to  wind  my  horn,— 

Thou  art  with  numbers  overborne ; 
It  rests  with  me,  here,  brand  to  brand, 
Worn  as  thou  art,  to  bid  thee  stand ; 
But,  nor  for  clan  nor  kindred's  cause 
Will  I  depart  from  honor's  laws : 
To  assail  a  wearied  man  were  shame, 
And  stranger  is  a  holy  name ; 
Guidance  and  rest,  and  food  and  fire, 
In  vain  he  never  must  require. 
Then  rest  thee  here  till  dawn  of  day, 
Myself  will  guide  thee  on  the  way, 
O'er  stock  and  stone,  through  watch  and  ward. 
Till  past  Clan-Alpine's  outmost  guard, 
As  far  as  Coilantogle's  ford ; 
From  thence  thy  warrant  is  thy  sword." 

VII. 

"I  take  thy  courtesy,  by  Heaven, 
As  freely  as  'tis  nobly  given !" 
"  Well  rest  thee ;  for  the  bittern's  cry 
Sings  us  the  lake's  wild  lullaby." 
With  that  he  shook  the  gathered  heath, 
And  spread  his  plaid  upon  the  wreath  j 
And  the  brave  foemen,  side  by  side, 
Lay  peaceful  down,  like  brothers  tried. 
And  dlept  until  the  dawning  beam 
Purpled  the  mountain  and  the  stream. 

VIII; 

That  early  beam,  so  fair  and  sheen, 
Was  twinkling  through  the  hazel  screen, 
When,  rousing  at  its  glimmer  red, 
The  warriors  left  their  lowly  bed, 


RHETORICAL    READER.  405 

Looked  out  upon  the  dappled  sky, 
Muttered  their  soldier  matins  by, 
And  then  awaked  their  fire,  to  steal. 
As  short  and  rude,  their  soldier  meal. 

IX. 

That  o'er,  the  Grael  *  around  him  threw 
His  gravjeful  plaid  of  varied  hue. 
And,  true  to  promise,  led  the  way, 
By  thicket  green  and  mountain  gray. 

'Twas  oft  ^0  steep,  the  foot  was  fain 
Assistance  from  tke  hand  to  gain  : 
So  tangled  oft,  that  bureting  through, 
Each  hawthorn  shed  her  showers  of  dew,— 
That  diamond  dew,  so  pure  and  clear, 
It  rivals  all  but  beauty's  tear  I 


At  length,  they  came  where,  stern  and  steep 
The  hill  sinks  down  upon  the  deep ; 
So  toilsome  was  the  road  to  trace, 
The  guide,  abating  of  his  pace. 
Led  slowly  through  the  pass's  jaws. 
And  asked  Fitz- James  by  what  strange  cause 
He  sought  these  wilds, — traversed  by  few, 
Without  a  pass  from  Roderick  Dhu  ? 

XI. 

"Brave  Gael,  my  pass,  in  danger  tried, 
Hangs  in  my  belt,  and  by  my  side ; 
Yet,  sooth  .to  tell,"  the  Saxon  said, 
"  I  dreamed  not  now  to  claim  its  aid  j 
When  here,  but  three  days'  since,  I  came, 
Bewildered  in  pursuit  of  game, 

*  The  Scottish  Highlander  calls  himself  Gad^  and  term*  tilie  Low 
lander,  Saxon, 


406  SANDERS'     UNION     SERIES. 

All  seemed  as  peaceful,  and  as  still, 
As  tlie  mist  slumbering  on  yon  hill ; 
Thy  dangerous  chief  was  then  afar, 
Nor  soon  expected  back  from  war ; 
Thus  said,  at  least,  my  mountain  guide, 
Though  deep,  perchance,  the  villain  lied." 

XII. 

"  Yet  why  a  second  venture  try  V* 
"  A  warrior  thou,  and  ask  me  why  I 
Enough  I  sought  to  drive  away 
The  lazy  hours  of  peaceful  day; 
Slight  cause  will  then  suflSce  to  guide 
A  knight's  free  footsteps  far  and  wide  j 
A  falcon  flown,  a  greyhound  strayed, 
The  merry  glance  of  mountain  maid : 
Or,  if  a  path  be  dangerous  known. 
The  danger's  self  is  lure  alone." 

xin. 

" Thy  secret  keep;  I  urge  thee  not; 
Yet,  ere  again  ye  sought  this  spot, 
Say,  heard  ye  naught  of  lowland  war, 
Against  Clan-Alpine  raised  by  Mar  ?" 

"  No,  by  my  word  j — of  bands  prepared 
To  guard  King  James's  sports  I  heard ; 
Nor  doubt  I  aught,  but  when  they  hear 
This  muster  of  the  mountaineer, 
Their  pennons  will  abroad  be  flung, 
Which  else  in  Doune  had  peaceful  hung." 

XIV. 

"  Free  be  they  flung ! — for  we  were  loth 
Their  silken  folds  should  feast  the  moth. 
Free  be  they  flung ! — as  free  shall  wave 
Clan-Alpine's  pine  in  banner  brave. 
But,  stranger,  peaceful  since  you  came, 
Bewildered  in  the  mountain  game, 


RHETORICAL    READER.  407 

Whence  the  bold  boast  by  which  you  show 
Vich- Alpine's  vowed  and  mortal  foe  ?" 

XV. 

"  Warrior,  but  yester-morn,  I  knew 
Naught  of  thy  chieftain,  Roderick  Dhu, 
Save  as  an  exiled,  desperate  man, 
The  chief  of  a  rebellious  clan, 
Who,  in  the  regent's  court  and  sight, 
With  ruffian  dagger  stabbed  a  knight ; 
Yet  this  alone  might  from  his  part 
Sever  each  true  and  loyal  heart." 

XVI. 

A  space  he  paused,  then  sternly  said, 
"  And  heardst  thou  why  he  drew  his  blade  ? 
Heardst  thou  that  shameful  word  and  blow 
Brought  Roderick's  vengeance  on  his  foe  ? 
What  recked  the  chieftain,  if  he  stood 
On  highland  heath,  or  Holy-Rood  ? 
He  rights  such  wrong  where  it  is  given, 
If  it  were  in  the  court  of  Heaven  I" 

XVII. 
"  But  then  thy  chieftain's  robber  life- 
Winning  mean  prey  by  causeless  strife, 
Wrenching  from  ruined  lowland  swain 
His  herds  and  harvests  reared  in  vain — 
Methinks  a  soul  like  thine  should  scorn 
The  spoils  from  such  foul  foray  borne  1" 

XVIII. 

The  Gael  beheld  him  grim  the  while, 
And  answered  with  disdainful  smile, — 
"  Saxon,  from  yonder  mountain  high, 
I  marked  thee  send  delighted  eye 
Far  to  the  south  and  east,  where  lay, 
Extended  in  succession  gay, 


l''»  SANTEHS'    UNION    SERIES. 

Deep  waving  fields  and  pastures  green^ 
With  gentle  slopes  and  groves  between* 

XIX. 

These  fertile  plains,  that  softened  vale, 
Were  once  the  birthright  of  the  Gael ; 
The  stranger  came  with  iron  hand, 
And  from  our  fathers  reft  the  land. 
Where  dwell  we  now  ?     See  rudely  swell 
Crag  over  crag,  and  fell  o'er  fell. 

Where  live  the  mountain  chiefs  who  hold 
That  plundering  lowland  field  and  fold 
Is  aught  but  retribution  due  ? 
Seek  other  cause  'gainst  Roderick  Dhu." 

XX. 

Answered  Fitz-James, — "  And,  if  I  sought, 
Think'st  thou  no  other  could  be  brought  ? 
What  deem  ye  of  my  path  waylaid, 
My  life  given  o'er  to  ambuscade  ?" 

"  As  of  a  meed  to  rashness  due : 
Hadst  thou  sent  warning  fair  and  true,— 
I  seek  my  hound,  or  falcon  strayed, 
I  seek,  good  faith,  a  highland  maid, — 
Free  hadst  thou  been  to  come  and  go  f 
JBut  secret  path  marks  secret  foe. 

XXI. 

"  Nor  yet  for  this,  e'en  as  a  spy, 
Hadst  thou  unheard  been  doomed  to  die. 
Save  to  fulfill  an  augury." 
"  Well,  let  it  pass ;  nor  will  I  now 
Fresh  cause  of  enmity  avow, 
To  chafe  thy  mood  and  cloud  thy  brow. 

Enough,  I  am  by  promise  tied 
To  match  me  with  this  man  of  pride : 
Twice  have  I  sought  Clan-Alpine's  glen 
In  peace;  but,  when  I  come  again, 


RHETORICAL    RE  VDER.  4ll9 

I  coiae  with  banner,  brand,  and  bow, 
As  leader  seeks  his  mortal  foe ; 
For  lovelorn  swain,  in  lady's  bower, 
Ne'er  panted  for  the  appointed  houi, 
As  I,  until  before  me  stand 
This  rebel  chieftain  and  his  band." 

XXII. 

'^  Have  then  thy  wish  !"     He  whistled  shrill, 
And  he  was  answered  from  the  hill ; 

That  whistle  garrisoned  the  glen 
At  once  with  full  five  hundred  men, 
As  if  the  yawning  hill  to  heaven 
A  subterranean  host  had  given ; 
Watching  their  leader's  beck  and  will, 
All  silent  there  they  stood,  and  still. 

The  mountaineer  cast  glance  of  pride 
Along  Benledi's  living  side. 
Then  fixed  his  eye  and  sable  brow 
Full  on  Fitz- JameS; — "  How  say'st  thou  now  ? 
These  are  Clan- Alpine's  warriors  true: 
And,  Saxon, — I  am  Roderick  Dhu !" 

XXIII. 

Fitz-James  was  brave  : — though  to  his  heart 
The  life-blood  thrilled  with  sudden  start, 
He  manned  himself  with  dauntless  air, 
Returned  the  chief  his  haughty  stare. 
His  back  against  a  rock  he  bore. 
And  firmly  placed  his  foot  before : 
"  Come  one.  come  all !  this  rock  shall  fly 
From  its  firm  base  as  soon  as  I." 

Sir  Roderick  marked — and  in  his  eyes 
Respect  was  mingled  with  surprise, 
And  the  stern  joy  which  warriors  feel 
In  foemen  worthy  of  their  steel. 

''  6R 


*10  SANDERS'     UNION     SERIES. 

XXIV. 

Short  space  he  stood — then  waved  his  handj 
Down  sunk  the  disappearing  band ; 

Each  warrior  vanished  where  he  stood, 
In  broom  or  bracken,  heath  or  wood ; 
Sunk  brand  and  spear  and  bended  bow 
In  osiers  pale  and  copses  low ; 
It  seemed  as  if  their  mother  earth 
Had  swallowed  up  her  warlike  birth. 

XXV. 

Fitz-James  looked  round — yet  scarce  believed 
The  witness  that  his  sight  received ; 
Such  apparition  well  might  seem 
Delusion  of  a  dreadful  dream. 

Sir  Roderick  in  suspense  he  eyed, 
And  to  his  look  the  chief  replied, — 
"  Fear  naught — nay,  that  I  need  not  say — 
But — doubt  not  aught  from  mine  array. 
Thou  art  my  guest ;  I  pledged  my  word 
As  far  as  Coilantogie  ford  : 
Nor  would  I  call  a  clansman's  brand 
For  aid  against  one  valiant  hand. 
Though  on  our  strife  lay  every  vale 
Rent  by  the  Saxon  from  the  Gael. 

XXVI. 

So  move  we  on ;  I  only  meant 
To  show  the  reed  on  which  you  leant, 
Deeming  this  path  you  might  pursue 
Without  a  pass  from  Roderick  Dhu.'' 

The  chief  in  silence  strode  before. 
And  reached  the  torrent's  sounding  shore. 
And  here  his  course  the  chieftain  stayed, 
Threw  down  his  target  and  his  plaid, 
And  to  the  lowland  waiTior  said  : — 


RHETORirAL     READER.  411 

'  Bold  Saxon !  to  his  promise  just, 
Vich- Alpine  has  discharged  his  trust; 
This  murderous  chief,  this  ruthless  man, 
This  head  of  a  rebellious  clan, 
Hath  led  thee  safe,  through  watch  and  ward. 
Far  past  Clan-Alpine's  outmost  guard. 
Now,  man  to  man,  and  steel  to  steel, 
A  chieftain's  vengeance  thou  shalt  feel. 
See,  here  all  vantageless  I  stand. 
Armed,  like  thyself,  with  single  brand ; 
For  this  is  Coilantogle  ford, 
And  thou  must  keep  thee  with  thy  sword. 

XXVII. 

The  Saxon  paused  : — "  I  ne'er  delayed, 
When  foeman  bade  me  draw  my  blade ; 
Nay,  more,  brave  chief,  I  vowed  thy  death; 
Yet  sure  thy  fair  and  generous  faith, 
And  my  deep  debt  for  life  preserved, 
A  better  meed  have  well  deserved  : 

Can  naught  but  blood  our  feud  atone  ? 
A.re  there  no  means  ?" — "  No,  stranger,  none  ! 
And  here, — to  fire  thy  flagging  zeal, — 
The  Saxon  cause  rests  on  thy  steel  j 
For  thus  spoke  Fate,  by  prophet  bred 
Between  the  living  and  the  dead : 
'  Who  spills  the  foremost  foeman's  life, 
His  party  conquers  in  the  strife.' " 

"  Then,  by  my  word,"  the  Saxon  said, 
"  The  riddle  is  already  read ; 
Seek  yonder  brake  beneath  the  cliflF, — 
There  lies  Bed  Murdoch,*  stark  and  stiflF. 
Thus  Fate  hath  solved  her  prophecy, 
Then  yield  to  Fate,  and  not  to  me ; 

*  Red  Murdoch  was  a  faithless  guide  whom  Fitz-James  had  juti 
before  slain. 


112  SANDERS'    UNION    SEllIES. 

To  James,  at  Stirling,  let  us  go, 
When,  if  thou  wilt,  be  still  his  foe  j 
Or,  if  the  king  shall  not  agree 
To  grant  thee  grace  and  favor  free, 
I  plight  mine  honor,  oath,  and  word. 
That,  to  thy  native  strength  restored. 
With  each  advantage  shalt  thou  stand 
That  aids  thee  now  to  guard  thy  land/ 


XXVIII. 

Dark  lightning  flashed  from  Roderick's  eye- 
"  Soars  thy  presumption,  then,  so  high 
Because  a  wretched  kern  ye  slew, 
Homage  to  name  to  Roderick  Dhu  ? 
He  yields  not,  he,"  to  man  nor  Fate ! 
Thou  add'st  but  fuel  to  my  hate. — 
My  clansman's  blood  demands  revenge  ! — 

Not  yet  prepared  ? — By  Heaven  I  change 
My  thought,  and  hold  thy  valor  light, 
As  that  of  some  vain  carpet  knight, 
Who  ill  deserved  my  courteous  care, 
And  whose  best  boast  is  but  to  wear 
A  braid  of  his  fair  lady's  hair  I" 

XXIX. 

"  I  thank  thee,  Roderick,  for  the  word  I 
It  nerves  my  heart,  it  steels  my  sword ; 
For  I  have  sworn  this  braid  to  stain 
In  the  best  blood  that  warms  thy  vein. 
Now,  truce,  farewell !  and  ruth,  begone  ! — 
Yet  think  not  that  by  thee  alone, 
Proud  chief !  can  courtesy  be  shown. 

Though  not  from  copse,  or  heath,  or  cairD, 
Start  at  my  whistle  clansmen  stern, 
Of  this  small  horn  one  feeble  blast 
Would  fearful  odds  against  thee  cast; 


RHETORICAL    READER.  413 

But  fear  not — doubt  not — which  thou  wilt, 
We  try  this  quarrel  hilt  to  hilt." 


XXX. 

Then  each,  at  once,  his  falchion  drew, 
Each  on  the  ground  his  scabbard  threw, 
Each  looked  to  sun,  and  stream,  and  plain, 
As  what  they  ne'er  might  see  again ; 
Then,  foot,  and  point,  and  eye  opposed, 
In  dubious  strife  they  darkly  closed. 

Ill  fared  it  then  with  Roderick  Dhu 
That  on  the  field  his  targe  he  threw, 
Whose  brazen  studs  and  tough  bull-hide 
Had  death  so  often  dashed  aside ; 
For,  trained  abroad  his  arms  to  wield, 
Fitz-James's  blade  was  sword  and  shield. 

He  practiced  every  pass  and  ward, 
To  thrust,  to  strike,  to  feint,  to  guard ; 
While  less  expert,  though  stronger  far. 
The  Gael  maintained  unequal  war. 
Three  times  in  closing  strife  they  stood. 
And  thrice  the  Saxon  sword  drank  blood. 


XXXI. 

Fierce  Roderick  felt  the  fatal  drain. 
And  showered  his  blows  like  wint'ry  rain, 
And,  as  firm  rock,  or  castle  roof, 
Against  the  winter  shower  is  proof, 
The  foe,  invulnerable  still. 
Foiled  his  wild  rage  by  steady  skill  j 
rill,  at  advantage  ta'en,  his  brand 
Forced  Roderick's  weapon  from  his  hand, 
And,  backwards  borne  upon  the  lea, 
Brought  the  proud  chieftain  to  his  kuee 


U-}  SANDERS      UNION    SERIES. 

XXXII. 

"  Now  yield  theo,  or,  by  Him  who  made 
The  world,  thy  heart's  blood  dyes  my  blade !" 
"  Thy  threats,  thy  mercy,  I  defy ! 
Let  recreant  yield  who  fears  to  die." 
Like  adder  darting  from  his  coil, 
Like  wolf  that  dashes  through  the  toil. 
Like  mountain-cat  who  guards  her  young, 
Full  at  Fitz-James's  throat  he  sprung. 
Received,  but  recked  not  of  a  wound, 
And  locked  hrs  arms  his  foeman  round. 

XXXIII. 

Now,  gallant  Saxon,  hold  thine  own ! 
No  maiden's  hand  is  round  thee  thrown ! 
That  desperate  grasp  thy  frame  might  feel 
Through  bars  of  brass  and  triple  steel  I 
They  tug,  they  strain ; — down,  down  they  go, 
The  Gael  above,  Fitz-James  below. 

The  chieftain's  gripe  his  throat  compressed, 
His  knee  was  planted  on  his  breast; 
His  clotted  locks  he  backward  threw, 
Across  his  brow  his  hand  he  drew. 
From  blood  and  mist  to  clear  his  sight. 
Then  gleamed  aloft  his  dagger  bright ! 

But  hate  and  fury  ill  supplied 
The  stream  of  life's  exhausted  tide, 
And  all  too  late  the  advantage  came. 
To  turn  the  odds  of  deadly  game ; 
For,  while  the  dagger  gleamed  on  high. 
Reeled  soul  and  sense,  reeled  brain  and  eyej 
Down  came  the  blow !  but  in  the  heath 
The  erring  blade  found  bloodless  sheath. 
Unwounded  from  the  dreadful  close, 
But  breathless  all,  Fitz-James  arose. 


RRETORICAL    READER  ilft 


EXERCISE  CXXII. 

William  Docglas  Jerrold  was  born  in  London,  January  3d,  1803,  and 
died  there  January  8th,  1857.  At  the  age  of  ten  he  got  a  midshipman's  com- 
mis^ion,  and  went  to  sea.  In  that  service  he  spent  two  years.  He  then 
entered  a  printing-office,  as  an  apprentice.  His  leisure  hours,  during  the 
apprenticeship,  were  devoted  to  reading  and  study.  His  first  literary  elFort 
was  a  comedy  called  "  More  Frightened  than  Hurt."  Though  written  when 
he  was  but  fifteen  years  old,  it  turned  out  to  be  a  great  success.  After  this 
he  came  to  be  a  regular  writer  of  dramatic  pieces,  chiefly  humorous,  for  the 
stage.  His  reputation  for  ability,  in  this  line,  was  a  source  of  great  profit. 
His  articles  in  the  magazines  tended  still  further  to  increase  his  popularity 
Those  that  he  contributed  to  "Blackwood"  and  the  "New  Monthly,"  after- 
wards appeared  together  in  a  volume  under  the  title  of  "  Men  of  Character." 
The  "  Caudle  Lectures,"  whence  the  following  extract,  appeared  originally 
in  the  London  "  Punch."  His  writings,  in  the  matter  of  wit,  humor,  ready 
retort,  and  keen  satire,  are  said  to  be  but  a  fair  representation  of  the  styl* 
and  character  of  the  man  in  ordinary  conversation. 

THE  BORROWED  UMBRELLA. 

DOUaiAS  JERROLD. 

1.  Bah!  that's  the  third  umbrella  gone  since  Christmas. 
What  were  you  to  do?  Why,  let  him  go  home  in  the  rain,  to 
be  sure.  I'm  very  certain  there  was  nothing  about  him  that 
could  spoil !  Take  cold,  indeed  !  lie  doesn't  look  like  one  of 
the  sort  to  take  cold.  Besides,  he'd  have  better  taken  cold,  than 
taken  our  umbrella.  Do  you  hear  th£  rain,  Mr.  Caudle?  I 
say,  do  you  hear  the  rain  ?  Do  you  hear  it  against  the  windows  ? 
Nonsense  :  you  don't  impose  upon  me ;  you  can't  be  asleep  with 
such  a  shower  as  that !  Do  you  hear  it,  I  say  ?  Oh  !  you  do 
hear  it !  Well,  that 's  a  pretty  flood,  I  think,  to  last  for  six 
weeks;  and  no  stirring  all  the  time  out  of  the  house.  Pooh! 
don't  think  me  a  fool,  Mr.  Caudle;  don't  insult  me;  he  return 
the  umbrella  ?  Anybody  would  think  you  were  born  yesterday. 
Ai  it"  anybody  ever  did  return  au  umbrella  ! 

2.  There :  do  jou  hear  it  ?  Worse  and  worse.  Cats  and 
dogs  I  and  for  six  weeks ;  always  six  weeks ;  and  no  umbrella  I 
I  should  like  to  know  how  the  children  are  to  go  to  school  to- 
morrow. They  sha'n't  go  through  such  weather;  I  am  deter- 
mined.  No ;  they  shall  stop  at  home  and  never  learn  anything, 
(the  blessed  creatures  I)  sooner  than  go  and  get  wet!  And 
»«rhen  they  grow  up,  I  wonder  whom  they  '11  have  to  thank   for 


416  SANDERS'     UMON     SERIES.   . 

knowing   nothing;   whom,  indeed,  but  their  father?      People 
who  can't  feel  for  their  own  children,  ought  never  to  be  fathers, 

3.  But  I  know  why  you  lent  the  umbrella :  oh,  yes,  I  know 
very  well.  I  was  going  out  to  tea  at  dear  mother's  to-morrow  : 
you  knew  that,  and  you  did  it  on  purpose.  Don't  tell  me  j  you 
hate  to  have  me  to  go  there,  and  take  every  mean  advantage  to 
hinder  me.  But  don't  you  think  it,  Mr.  Caudle ;  no,  sir ;  if  it 
comes  down  in  buckets  full,  I  '11  go  all  the  more.  No ;  and  I  '11 
not  have  a  cab !  Where  do  you  think  the  money  's  to  come 
from?  You've  got  nice,  high  notions  at  that  club  of  yours.  A 
cab,  indeed  !  Cost  me  sixteen-pence,  at  least ;  sixteen-pence ! 
two-and-eight-pence ;  for  there 's  back  again.  Cabs,  indeed  !  I 
should  like  to  know  who 's  to  pay  for  'em ;  for  I  am  sure  you 
can't,  if  you  go  on  as  you  do,  throwing  away  your  property,  and 
beggaring  your  children,  buying  umbrellas  ! 

4.  Do  you  hear  the  rain,  Mr.  Caudle  ?  I  say,  do  you  hear  it? 
But  I  don't  care;  I'll  go  to  mother's  to-morrow;  I  will;  and 
what 's  more  I  '11  walk  every  step  of  the  way ;  and  you  know  that 
will  give  me  my  death.  Don't  call  me  a  foolish  woman ;  'tis  you 
that 's  the  foolish  man.  You  know  I  can't  wear  clogs ;  and,  with 
no  umbrella,  the  wet 's  sure  to  give  me  a  cold  :  it  always  does : 
but  what  do  you  care  for  that  ?  Nothing  at  all.  .  I  may  be  laid 
up  for  what  you  care,  as  I  dare  say  I  shall ;  and  a  pretty  doctor's 
bill  there  '11  be. .  I  hope  there  will.  It  will  teach  you  to  lend 
your  umbrellas  again.  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  I  caught  my 
death :  yes,  and  that 's  what  you  lent  the  umbrella  for.  Of 
course ! 

5.  Nice  clothes  I  get,  too,  tramping  through  weather  like  this. 
My  gown  and  bonnet  will  be  spoiled  quite.  Needn't  I  wear 
'em  then?  Indeed,  Mr.  Caudle,  I  shall  wear  'em.  No,  sir; 
I'm  not  going  out  a  dowdy  to  please  you  or  anybody  else. 
Gracious  knows!  it  isn't  often  that  I  step  over  the  threshold; 
indeed,  I  might  as  well  be  a  slave  at  once :  better,  I  should  say; 
but  when  I  do  go  out,  Mr.  Caudle,  I  choose  to  go  as  a  lady. 
Oh !  that  rain  !  if  it  isn't  enough  to  break  in  the  windows. 
Ugh  !  I  look  forward  with  dread  for  to-morrow !  How  I  am  to 
go  to  mother's,  I  'm  sure  I  can't  tell,  but  if  I  die,  I  '11  do  it.    No, 


,  RHETORICAL    READER.  417 

mr;  I'll  not  borrow  an  umbrella:  no;  and  you  slia'n't  buy  one. 
Mr.  Caudle,  if  you  bring  home  another  umbrella,  I  '11  throw  it 
in  the  street. 

6.  Ha !  And  it  was  only  last  week  I  had  a  new  nozzle  put 
on  that  umbrella.  I'm  sure  if  I  'd  known  as  much  as  I  do  now, 
it  might  have  gone  without  one.  Paying  for  new  nozzles  for 
other  people  to  laugh  at  you  !  Oh  !  'tis  all  very  well  for  you. 
Yoxjl  've  no  thought  of  your  poor,  patient  wife,  and  your  own  deal 
children;  you  think  of  nothing  but  lending  umbrellas!  Men, 
indeed  !  call  themselves  lords  of  the  creation  !  pretty  lords,  when 
thej  can't  even  take  care  of  an  umbrella ! 

7.  I  know  that  walk  to-morrow  will  be  the  death  of  me,  but 
that 's  what  you  want :  then  you  may  go  to  your  club,  and  do  as 
you  like;  and  then,  nicely  my  poor,  dear  childrien  will  be  used; 
but  then,  sir,  then  you  '11  be  happy.  Oh  !  don't  tell  me !  I 
know  you  will :  else  you  'd  never  have  lent  the  umbrella  !  You 
have  to  go  on  Thursday  about  that  summons;  and,  of  course,  you 
can't  go.  No,  indeed  :  you  don't  go  without  the  umbrella.  You 
may  lose  the  debt  for  what  I  care  ;  'tis  not  so  bad  as  spoiling 
your  clothes;  better  lose  it;  people  deserve  to  lose  debts  who 
lend  umbrellas  ! 

8.  And  I  should  like  to  know  how  I  'm  to  go  to  mother's  with- 
out the  umbrella.  Oh!  don't  tell  me  that  I  said  I  tcow7c?  go; 
that's  nothing  to  do  with  it:  nothing  at  all.  She'll  think  I'm 
neglecting  her ;  and  the  little  money  we  're  to  have,  we  sha'n't 
have  at  all :  because  we've  no  umbrella.  The  cliildren  too ! 
(dear  things!)  they'll  be  sopping  wet;  for  they  sha'n't  stay  at 
home;  they  sha'n't  lose  their  learning;  'tis  all  thtir  father  will 
leave  them,  I  'm  sure.  But  they  shall  go  to  school.  Don't  tell 
me  they  should'nt  (you  are  so  aggravating.  Caudle,  you  'd  spoil 
the  temper  of  an  angel))  they  shall  go  to  school;  mark  that; 
and  if  they  get  their  deaths  of  cold,  'tis  not  my  fault;  I  Udn't 
lend  the  umbrella 


18 


418  UANDERS'    UNION     SERIES. 

EXERCISE   CXXIIl. 
SKETCH  OF  ADDISON.* 


NEW   AM.  CYCLOP^l'IA. 


1.  The  life  of  Addison  may  be  divided  into  three  periods: 
the  first,  that  of  a  student,  during  which  he  acquired  a  high 
reputation  for  learning  and  facility  in  composition,  both  I^atin 
ftnd  English,  while  a  resident  graduate  and  fellow  at  Oxford ; 
the  second,  a  long  and,  on  the  whole,  fortunate  official  career  as 
an  employe f  of  the  government;  and  the  third,  an  interrupted, 
yet  congenial  and  prosperous  course  of  authorship.  These 
several  phases  of  a  life,  memorable  for  its  dignified  and  urbane 
tenor,  were  sometimes  interwoven  and  coincident ;  but,  together, 
they  represent  the  sum  of  Addison's  public  labors. 

2.  The  integrity,  good  taste,  and  amiable  feeling  which  char- 
acterized the  man,  both  in  office  and  authorship,  as  a  represent 
tative  of  political  authority  and  a  devotee  of  letters,  endeared 
him  to  his  friends,  when  living,  and  have  hallowed  his  memory 
and  writings  to  succeeding  generations.  The  example  of  kindly 
humor,  in  an  age  of  sarcastic  wit,  of  friendly  association,  in  one 
of  political  auimosity,  of  purity  of  sentiment  and  correctness  of 
diction,  in  one  of  coarse  and  careless  expression,  was  invaluable, 
and,  with  the  modest  and  benevolent  traits  of  Addison  and  his 
delightful  conversation,  adequately  explain  the  remarkable  esteem 
and  affection  in  which  he  was  held. 

3.  For  maliy  years  his  circumstances  were  dependent  on  that 
fluctuating  element,  called  ''the  state  of  parties;"  but  he  escaped 
the  more  painful  drudgery  which  cramped  the  genius  of  an 
earlier  race  of  English  authors ;  and  carried  on  the  literary 
fame  of  his  country  from  the  death  of  Dryden  to  the  days  of 
Johnson  and  Groldsmith.  Few  names  are  more  cherished  on 
that  noble  roil,  and  few  writings  have  exercised  a  more  promi- 
Dent  and  pleasing  influence  on  taste  and  social  character  than 
those  of  Addison. 

*  See  Note  on  Exercise  II. 

f  Employ^  [em  ploy  a),  one  employed. 


RHETORICAL    READER  419 

4.  According  to  our  present  mode  of  estimating  verse,  his 
muse  is  academic  rather  than  spiritual^  correct  rather  than 
earnest;  and,  accordingly,  in  this  regard,  his  fame  is  n»ore  his- 
torical than  absolute.  Tt  is  by  the  graces  of  his  prose — the 
absence  of  exaggeration — the  clear,  easy,  yet  refined  style — the 
moral  purpose — the  social  charm,  and  the  delicate  humor  of  his 
essays,  that  Addison  made  himself  a  household  favorite,  wherever 
the  English  tongue  is  spoken  or  read.  He  was  in  many  respects 
a  pioneer  in  these  excellencies,  and  initialed  the  higher  class 
of  periodicals,  which,  in  our  age,  rank  as  essential  organs  of 
public  sentiment,  and  mediums  of  literary  triumph  or  pleasure. 

5.  A  Christian  spirit  informs  the  pages,  as  it  did  the  life  and 
death  of  Addison,  and  has  greatly  tended  to  consecrate  his  fame. 
The  taste  of  our  day  is  'for  a  more  intense  school,  a  more  dashing 
rhetoric  and  deeper  insight ;  compared  with  the  essayists  now 
in  vogue,  Addison  seems  to  lack  fire,  breadth  of  purpose,  and 
sympathy  with  great  interests.  Yet  it  is  conceded  by  the  judi- 
cious, that  his  serenity,  evenness,  self-possession,  and  quiet  grace 
— and,  especially,  his  unaifected  English,  and  unexaggerated 
tone,  might  be  copied,  with  eminent  advantage,  by  the  ambitious 
writers  of  tcr-day.  Of  his  pre-eminent  services  to  good  taste 
and  social  amelioration,  and  of  his  high  *and  permanent  claim 
to  standard  authority  in  English  literature,  there,  however,  has 
been  no  question  amid  all  the  vicissitudes  of  style  and  taste 
since  his  time. 

6.  x\lthough  political  disappointment,  an  injudicious  marriage, 
and  declining  health,  threw  a  cloud  over  the  last  days  of  tliis 
accomplished  and  beloved  writer,  one  of  his  last  works  was  a 
perspicuous  and  able  treatise  on  the  "  Evidences  of  Christianity,'"' 
since  superseded  by  more  complete  expositions,  but  of  great 
utility  at  the  period  of  its  publication.  The  fortitude  and  faith 
which  attei.ded  his  tranquil  departure,  have  been  celebrated,  as 
appropriate  to  the  closing  scene  of  one  who,  living,  had  been 
so  delightful  a  censor  and  genial  an  oracle  in  letters,  manners, 
'.nd  opinions : — 

"  He  taught  us  how  to  live — and,  oh  !  too  high 
The  price  of  knowledge — taught  us  how  to  ^/*  '' 


420  SANDERS'     UN  ION  'SEH  J  E  g 

EXERCISE  CXXIV. 
DISCRETION,  NOT  CUNNING. 


ADM80S 


1.  I  have  often  thought,  if  the  minds  of  men  were  laid  open, 
we  should  see  but  little  difference  between  that  of  the  wise  man. 
and  that  of  the  fool.  There  are  infinite  reveries,  numberkss 
extravagances,  and  a  perpetual  train  of  vanities,  which  pass 
through  both.  The  great  difference  is,  that  the  first  knows  how 
to  pick  and  cull  his  thoughts  for  conversation,  by  suppressing 
some,  and  communicating  others;  whereas  the  other  lets  them 
all  indifferently  fly  out  in  words.  This  sort  of  discretion,  how- 
3ver,  has  no  place  in  private  conversajtion "  between  intimate 
friends.  On  such  occasions,  the  wisest  men  very  often  talk  like 
the  weakest;  for,  indeed,  the  talking  with  a  friend,  is  nothing 
else  but  thin/dng  aloud. 

2.  Tuily*  lins,  therefore,  very  justly  exposed  a  precept  deliv- 
2red  by  some  ancient  writers,  that  a  man  should  live  with  his 
euemy  in  such  a  manner,  as  might  leave  him  room  to  become 
his  friend ;  and  with  his  friend,  in  such  a  manner,  that,  if  ho 
become  his  enemy,  it,  should  not  be  in  his  power  to  hurt  him. 
The  first  part  of  this  rule,  which  regards  our  behavior  toward 
an  enemy,  is,  indeed,  very  reasonable,  as  well  as  very  prudential; 
but  the  latter  part  of  it,  which  regards  our  behavior  toward  a 
friend,  savors  more  of  cunning  than  of  discretion,  and  would  cut 
a  man  off  from  the  greatest  pleasures  of  life,  which  are  the  free- 
doms of  conversation  with  a  bosom  friend.  Beside  that,  when 
a  friend  is  turned  into  an  enemy,  and,  as  the  son  of  Sirach  calls 
him,f  "  a  hewrayer  of  secrets,'*  the  world  is  just  enough  to  accuse 
the  perfidiousness  of  the  friend,  rather  than  the  indiscretion  of 
the  person  who  confided  in  him. 

3.  Discretion  does  not  only  show  itself  in  words,  but  in  all 
the  circumstances  of  action,  and  is  like  an  under-agent  of  Provi- 

*  This  is  merely  an  abbreviation  of  the  middle  name  of  Cicero     hlf 
full  name  being  Marcus  Tullius  Cicero.     See  Exercise  LXX. 
f  Eccles.  vi.  9.  xxviii.  17. 


EHETTDRICAL    READER.  421 

dence,  to  gaide  and  direct  us  in  the  ordinary  concerns  oF  life. 
There  are  many  more  shining  quaHties  in  the  mind  of  man,  but 
there  is  none  so  useful  as  discretion;  it  is  this,  indeed,  which 
gives  a  value  to  all  the  rest,  .which  sets  them  at  work  in  their 
proper  times  and  places,  and  turns  them  to  the  advantage  of 
the  person  who  is  possessed  of  them.  Without  it,  learning  lb 
pedantry,  and  wit  impertinence;  virtue  itself  looks  like  weak- 
ness :  the  best  parts  only  qualify  a  man  to  be  more  sprightly  in 
errors,  and  active  to  his  own  prejudice. 

4.  Nor  does  discretion  only  make  a  man  the  master  of  his 
own  parts,  but  of  other  men's.  The  discreet  man  finds  out  the 
talents  of  those  he  converses  with,  and  knows  how  to  ajply 
them  to  proper  uses.  Accordingly,  if  we  look  into  particular 
communities  and  divisions  of  men,  we  may  observe  that  it  is  the 
discreet  man,  not  the  witty,  nor  the  learned,  nor  the  brave,  who 
guides  the  conversation,  and  gives  measures  to  society. 

5.  Though  a  man  has  all  other  perfections,  and  wants  discre- 
tion, he  will  be  of  no  great  consequence  in  the  world ;  but,  if  he 
has  this  single  talent  in  perfection,  and  but  a  common  share  of 
others,  he  may  do  what  he  pleases  in  his  particular  situation  of 
life.  At  the  same  time  that  I  think  discretion  the  most  useful 
talent  a  man  can  be  master  of,  I  look  upon  cunning  to  be  the 
accomplishment  of  little,  mean,  ungenerous  minds.  Discretion 
points  out  the  noblest  ends  to  us,  and  pursues  the  most  proper 
and  laudable  methods  of  attaining  them.  Cunning  has  only 
private,  selfish  aims,  and  sticks  at  nothing  which  may  make  them 
succeed.  Discretion  has  large  and  extended  views,  and,  like  a 
well-formed  eye,  commands  a  whole  horizon.  Cunning  is  a  kind 
of  shortsightedness,  which  discovers  the  minutest  objects  which 
are  near  at  hand,  but  is  not  able  to  discern  things  at  a  distance. 

6.  Discretion,  the  more  it  is  discovered,  gives  a  greater  autho- 
rity to  the  person  who  possesses  it.  Cunning,  when  it  is  once 
detected,  loses  its  force,  and  makes  a  man  incapable  of  bringing 
about  even  those  events  which  he  might  have  done,  had  he 
passed  only  for  a  plain  man.  Discretion  is  the  perfection  of 
reason,  and  a  guide  to  us  in  all  the  duties  of  life  :  cunning  is  a 
kind  of  instinct,  that,  only  looks  out  after  our  immediate  inter 


t22  SANDERS'     UNiON    SERIES. 

ests  and  welfare.  Discretion  is  only  found  in  men  of  strong 
sense  and  good  understandings  :  cunning  is  often  to  be  met  with 
in  brutes  themselves,  and  in  persons  who  are  but  the  fewest 
removes  from  them.  In  short,  cunning  is  only  the  miniic  of 
discretion,  and  may  pass  upon  weak  men,  in  the  same  manner  as 
vivacity  is  often  mistaken  for  wit.  and  gravity  for  wisdom 

7.  The  cast  of  mind  which  is  natural  to  a  discreet  man,  mjikrs 
him  look  forward  into  futurity,  and  consider  what  will  be  his 
condition  millions  of  ages  hence,  as  well  as  what  it  is  at  present. 
He  knows  that  the  misery  or  happiness  which  are  reserved  for 
him  in  another  world,  lose  nothing  of  their  reality  by  being  at 
80  great  distance  from  him.  The  objects  do  not  appear  little  to 
him,  because  they  are  remote.  He  considers  that  those  pleasures 
and  pains  which  lie  hid  in  eternity,  approach  nearer  to  him 
every  moment,  and  will  be  present  with  him  in  their  full  weight 
and  measure,  as  much  as  those  pains  and  pleasures  which  he 
feels  at  this  very  instant.  l*\)r  this  reason,  he  is  careful  to 
secure  to  himself  that  which  is  the  proper  happiness  of  hia 
nature,  and  the  ultimate  design  of  his  being.  He  carries  his 
thoughts  to  the  end  of  every  action,  and  considers  the  most  dis- 
tant, as  well  as  the  most  immediate  effects  of  it.  He  supersedes 
every  little  prospect  of  gain  and  advantage,  which  offers  itself 
here,  if  he  does  not  find  it  consistent  with  his  views  of  a  here- 
after. In  a  word,  his  hopes  are  full  of  immortality,  his  schemes 
are  large  and  glorious,  and  his  conduct  suitable  to  one  who 
knows  his  true  interest,  and  how  to  pursue  it  by  proper  methods. 


EXERCISE  CXXV. 


Thomas  Moore  was  born  in  iJublin,  in  the  year  1779,  and  died  in  Wilt- 
ihire,  England,  February  26th,  1852.  Like  many  others  of  the  sons  of  song, 
he  found  it  impossible  to  remember  when  he  first  began  to  rhyme.  Some  of 
hia  earlier  productions  were  so  deficient  in  moral  purity,  as  to  provoke  the 
severest  castigation  from  critics  and  reviewers.  But  of  these,  it  ought  to  be 
said  to  his  credit,  he  was  afterwards  deeply  ashamed.  He  was  a  voluminous 
writer  both  in  prose  and  poetry.  As  a  poet,  in  which  character  he  holds  a 
most  elevated  rank,  his  merit  is  well  uioiusured  in  the  following  extract. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  123 

MOORI    AS  A  POET. 

ROBERT    CHAMBERS.* 

1.  When  time  shall  has'^c  destroyed  the  attractive  charm  of 
Moore's  personal  qualities,  and  removed  his  works  to  a  distance, 
to  be  judged  of  by  their  fruit  alone,  the  want  most  deeply  felt 
will  be  that  of  simplicity  and  genuine  passion.  He  has  worked 
littb  in  the  durable  and  prrmanent  materials  of  poetry,  but  has 
spent  his  prime  in  enriching  the  stately  structure  with  exquisite 
ornaments,  foliage,  flovieij.,  and  gems.  He  has  preferred  the 
niyrt'e  to  the  olive  or  thr  oak.  His  longer  poems  want  human 
interest.  Tenderness  and  pathos  he  undoubtedly  possesses ;  but 
they  are  fleeting  and  evanescent — not  embodied  in  his  verse  in 
any  tale  of  melancholy  grandeur,  or  strain  of  affecting  morality 
or  sentiment. 

2.  He  often  throws  into  his  gay  and  festive  verses,  and  his 
fanciful  descriptions,  touches  of  pensive  and  mournful  reflection 
which  strike  by  tbiir  truth  and  beauty,  and  by  the  force  of 
contrast.  Indeed,  ono  effect  of  the  genius  of  Moore  has  beeli, 
to  elevate  the  feelings  and  occurrences  of  ordinary  life  intt 
poetry,  rather  than  dealing  with  the  lofty  abstract  elements  of 
the  art.     His  wit  answers  to  the  definition  of  Pope  :  it  if 

"Nature  to  advantage  dressed, 
What  oft  was  thought,  but  ne'er  so  well  expressed." 

3.  Its  combinations  are,  however,  wonderful.  Quick,  subtle, 
and  varied,  ever  suggesting  new  thoughts  or  images,  or  unex- 
pected turns  of  expression — now  drawing  resources  from  classical 
literature  or  the  ancient  fathers — now  diving  into  the  human 
heart,  and  now  skimming  the  fields  of  fancy — the  wit  or  imagi- 
nation of  Moore  (for  they  are  compounded  together)  is  a  true 
Ariel,  "  a  creature  of  the  elements,"  that  is  ever  buoyant  and 
full  of  life  and  spirit.  His  very  satires  *  give  delight,  and  hurt 
not."     They  are  never  coarse,  and  always  witty. 

4.  When  stung  by  ah  act  of  oppression  or  intolerance,  he  can 
be  bitter  or  sarcastic  enough ;  but  some  lively  thought  or  sportive 
image  soon  crosses  his  path,  and  he  instantly  follows  it  into  the 

*  See  Note  on  Exercise  CVIII. 


424  SANDERS'     UNION    SERIES. 

open  and  genial  region  where  he  loves  mo^t  to  indulge.      Ele 
never  dips  his  pen  in  malignity. 

5.  For  an  author  who  has  written  so  much  as  Mr.  Moore  has, 
done  on  the  subject  of  love  and  the  gay  delights  of  good  fellow- 
ship, it  was  scarce  possible  to  be  always  natural  and  ( riginal. 
Some  of  his  lyrics  and  occasional  poems,  accordingly,  present 
fai  retched  metaphors  and  conceits,  with  which  they  often  con- 
clude, like  the  final  flourish  or  pirouette*  of  a  stage-dancer.  Ilo 
has  pretty  well  exhausted  the  vocabulary  of  rosy  lips  and  spark 
ling  eyes,  forgetting  that  true  passion  is  ever  direct  and  simple 
— ever  concenttated  and  intense,  whether  bright  or  melancholy. 
This  df.fect,  however,  pervades  only  part  of  liis  songs,  and  those 
mostly  written  in  his  youth. 

6,  The  "  Irish  Melodies"  are  full  of  true  feeling  and  delicacy. 
By  universal  consent,  and  by  the  sure  test  of  memory,  these 
national  strains  are  the  most  popular  and  the  most  likely  to  be 
immortal  of  all  Moore's  works.  They  are  musical  almost  beyond 
parallel  in  words — graceful  in  thought  and  sentiment — often 
tender,  pathetic,  and  heroic — and  they  blend  poetical  and  ro- 
mantic feelings  with  the  objects  and  sympathies  of  common  life 
in  language  chastened  and  refined,  yet  apparently  so  simple  that 
every  trace  of  art  has  disappeared. 


EXERCISE  CXXVl.       . 
SPECIMENS  FROiM  THOMAS  MOOKE. 

THE    MEETING    OF    THE    WATERS.f 
1. 

There  is  not  in  the  wide  world  a  valley  so  sweet 
As  that  vale  in  whose  bosom  the  bright  waters  meet. 
O,  the  last  rays  of  feeling  and  life  must  depart. 
Ere  the  bloom  of  that  valley  shall  fade  from  my  heart. 

*  Pirouette  (pir  oo  et^),  a  quick  turning  on  the  toes  in  dancing 
f  The  rivers  Avon  and  Avoca. 


RHfiTORTCAL    READER.  425 

II. 

Yet  it  was  not  that  Nature  had  shed  o'er  the  scene 
Her  purest  of  crystal  and  brightest  of  green ; 
'Twa<=  not  her  soft  magic  of  streamlet  or  hill ; 
O,  no ;  it  was  something  more  exquisite  still. 

111. 
'TwdS  that  friends,  the  beloved  of  my  bosom,  were  neai, 
Who  made  every  dear  scene  of  enchantment  more  dear, 
And  who  felt  how  the  best  charms  of  nature  improve, 
When  we  see  them  reflected  from  looks  that  we  love. 

IV. 

Sweet  vale  of  Avoca !  how  calm  could  I  rest 
In  thy  bosom  of  shade  with  the  friends  I  love  best, 
When  the  storms  that  we  feel  in  this  cold  world  shall  cease, 
And  our  hearts,  like  thy  waters,  be  mingled  in  poaee ! 

there's  nothing  true  but  heaven. 

I. 

This  world  is  all  a  fleeting  show, 

For  man's  illusion  given ; 
The  smiles  of  joy,  the  tears  of  woe. 
Deceitful  shine,  deceitful  flow — 

There  's  nothing  true  but  Heaven. 

II. 
And  false  the  light  on  glory's  plume. 

As  fading  hues  of  even  ; 
And  love,  and  hope,  and  beauty's  blooE 
Are  blossoms  gathered  for  the  tomb — 

There  's  nothing  bright  but  Heaven. 

III. 
Poor  wanderers  of  a  stormy  day. 

From  wave  to  wave  we  're  driven ; 
And  fancy's  flash,  and  reason's  ray. 
Serve  but  to  light  the  troubled  way — 

There  's  nothing  culm  but  Heaven. 


426  SANDERS'     UNION     SERIES. 

IhE    LAK.E    OF   THE    DISMAL    SWAMP.* 
I. 

*  They  made  her  a  grave,  too  cold  and  damp 

For  a  soul  so  warm  and  true ; 
And  sh<  ''s  gone  to  the  Lake  of  the  Dismal  Swamp 
Where,  all  night  long,  by  a  fire-fly  lamp, 

She  paddles  her  white  canoe  !" 

n. 

"  And  L  3r  fire-fly  lamp  I  soon  shall  see, 

And  her  paddle  I  soon  shall  hear  j 
Long  and  loving  our  life  shall  be, 
And  I'll  hide  the  maid  in  a  cypress  tree, 
When  the  footstep  of  death  is  near  I" 

III. 

Away  to  tlie  Dismal  Swamp  he  speeds — 

His  piith  was  rugged  and  sore, 
Through  tangled  juniper,  beds  of  reeds, 
Through  many  a  fen,  where  the  serpent  feeds. 

And  man  never  trod  before  ! 


IV. 

AndjWhea  on  the  earth  he  sunk  to  sleep. 

If  slumber  his  eyelids  knew. 
He  lay,  where  the  deadly  vine  doth  weep 
Its  venomous  tear,  and  nightly  steep 
The  flesh  with  blistering  dew  ! 


*  *  They  tell  of  a  young  man  who  lost  his  mind  upon  the  death  of  a 
gin  he  loved,  and  who  suddenly  disappearing  from  his  friends,  was 
Qever  afterwards  heard  of.  As  he  had  frequently  said,  in  his  ravings, 
that  the  girl  was  not  dead  but  gone  to  the  Dismal  Swamp,  it  is  supposed 
he  had  wandered  into  that  dreary  wilderness,  and  had  died  of  hunger 
or  been  lost  in  some  of  its  dreadful  morasses." — Anon. 


RHETORICAL    READER  427 

V. 

And  near  him  the  she  wolf  stirred  the  brake, 
And  the  copper-snake  breathed  in  his  ear, 

Till  he  starting  cried,  from  his  dream  awake, 

"  Oh,  when  shall  I  see  the  dusky  lake,* 
And  the  white  canoe  of  my  dear  V 


VT 

He  saw  the  lake,  and  a  meteor  bright 

Quick  over  its  surface  played — 
*'  Welcome,"  he  said,  "  my  dear  one's  light," 
And  the  dim  shore  echoed,  for  many  a  night, 
The  name  of  the  death-cold  maid ! 


vn. 

Till  he  hollowed  a  boat  of  the  birchen  bark, 

Which  carried  him  off  from  shore ; 
Far,  far  he  followed  the  meteor  spark, 
The  wind  was  high  and  the  clouds  were  dark. 
And  the  boat  returned  no  more. 


VIII. 

But  oft  from  the  Indian  hunter's  camp, 

This  lover  and  maid  so  true 
Are  seen,  at  the  hour  of  midnight  damp. 
To  cross  the  lake  by  a  fire  fly  lamp. 

And  paddle  their  white  canoe  ! 

*  The  Dismal  Swamp  is  an  immense  marshy  tract  of  land,  com 
mencing  near  Norfolk,  Virginia,  and  extending  far  into  North  Caro- 
lina: being  about  thirty  miles  in  length  and  ten  in  width.  In  th€ 
midst  of  the  Swamp  is  the  lake  here  referred  to — Lake  Drummond, — 
fifteen  miles  in  circumference. 


128  SANDERS'     UNION     SERIES. 


EXERCISE  CXXVII. 

David  IIume,  the  celebrated  historian,  was  born  in  Edinburgh,  April  26th, 
1711,  and  died  August  25th,  1776.  Though  designed  for  the  law,  he  found 
greater  attractions  in  literary  pursuits  than  in  legal  studies,  and  so  gave 
himself  up  to  literature  for  life.  He  wrote  on  various  subjects  with  various 
degrees  of  success ;  but  in  nothing  did  he  succeed  so  well  as  in  the  writing 
of  history.  And  even  here,  though  powerful  in  the  portraiture  of  chaiacter, 
exceedingly  interesting  in  narrative,  and  all  but  perfect  in  styiC,  he  is  oflet 
deficient  in  accuracy  of  detail,  profoundness  of  reaearch,  and  in  the  ability  18 
resist  the  dominion  of  prejudice.  As  a  man,  though  amiable  in  temper  and 
exemplary  in  manners,  he  lived,  as  he  died,  a  skeptic  in  religion. 

Charles  I.,  king  of  England  and  Scotland,  whose  trial  and  execution  are 
80  touchingly  narrated  in  the  following  piece,  was  born  in  Scotland  in  the 
year  1600.  His  life  was  little  else  than  a  fierce  struggle  between  king  and 
people,  in  relation  to  the  rights  and  privileges  tf  each,  and  was  terminated 
by  his  execution  on  the  30th  of  January,  1649. 


TRIAL  AND  EXECUTION  OF  CHARLES  L 

HDMB. 

1.  Three  times  was  Charles  produced  before  the  court,  and  as 
often  declined  their  jurisdiction.  On  the  fourth,  the  judges 
having  examined  some  witnesses,  by  whom  it  was  proved  that 
the  king  had  appeared  in  arms  against  the  forces  commissioned 
by  the  parliament,  they  pronounced  sentence  against  him.  Ife 
seemed  very  anxious  at  this  time  to  be  admitted  to  a  conference 
with  the  two  houses ;  and  it  was  supposed  that  he  intended  to 
resign  the  crown  to  his  son  :  but  the  court  refused  compliance, 
and  considered  that  request  as  nothing  but  a  delay  of  justice. 

2.  It  is  confessed,  that  the  king's  behavior  during  the  last 
scene  of  his  life  does  honor  to  his  memory;  and  that,  in  all 
appearances  before  his  judges,  he  never  forgot  his  part,  either 
as  a  prince  or  as  a  man.  Firm  and  intrepid,  he  maintained,  in 
each  reply,  the  utmost  perspicuity  and  justness  both  of  thcught 
and  expression ;  mild  and  equable,  he  rose  into  no  passion  at 
that  unusual  authority  which  was  assumed  over  him.  His  soul, 
without  effort  or  affectation,  seemed  only  to  remain  in  the  situa- 
tion familiar  to  it,  and  to  look  down  with  contempt  on  all  the 
efforts  of  human  malice  and  iniquity. 

3    The  soldiers,  instigated  by  their  superiors,  were  brought. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  129 

though  with  diflBculty,  to  cry  aloud  for  justice.  "  Pooi  soals  I" 
said  the  king  to  one  of  his  attendants,  "  for  a  little  money  they 
would  do  as  much  against  their  commanders."  Some  of  them 
were  allowed  to  go  the  utmost  length  of  brutal  insolence,  and  to 
spit  in  his  face,  as  he  was  conducted  along  the  passage  to  the 
court.  To  excite  a  sentiment  of  pity  was  the  only  effect  which 
this  inhuman  insult  was  able  to  produce  upon  him. 

4.  The  people,  though  under  the  rod  of  lawless,  unlimited 
power,  could  not  forbear,  with  the  most  ardent  prayers,  pouring 
forth  their  wishes  for  his  preservation ;  and,  in  his  present  dis- 
tress, they  avowed  him,  by  their  generous  tears,  for  their 
monarch,  whom,  in  (heir  misguided  fury,  they  had  before  so 
violently  rejected.  The  king  was  softened  at  this  moving  scene, 
and  expressed  his  gratitude  for  their  dutiful  affection.  One 
soldier,  too,  seized  by  contagious  sympathy,  demanded  from 
Heaven  a  blessing  on  oppressed  and  fallen  majesty :  his  ofl&cer, 
overhearing  the  prayer,  beat  him  to  the  ground  in  the  king's 
presence.  "  The  punishment,  methinks,  exceeds  the  offense  :'* 
this  was  the  reflection  which  Charles  formed  on  that  occasion 

5.  ,As  soon  as  the  intention  of  trying  the  king  was  known  in 
foreign  countries,  so  enormous  an  action  was  exclaimed  against  by 
the  general  voice  of  reason  and  humanity;  and  all  the  men,  under 
whatever  form  of  government  they  were  born,  rejected  this  ex- 
ample, as  the  utmost  effor*  of  undisguised  usurpation,  and  the 
most  heinous  insult  on  law  and  justice.  The  French  ambassador, 
by  orders  from  his  court,  interposed  in  the  king's  behalf:  the 
Dutch  employed  their  good  offices  :  the  Scots  exclaimed  and 
protested  against  the  violence :  the  queen,  the  prince,  wrote 
pathetic  letters  to  the  parliament.  All  solicitations  were  found 
fruitless  with  men  whose  resolutions  were  fixed  and  irrevocable. 

6  Three  days  were  allowed  the  king  between  his  sentence 
and  his  execution.  This  interval  he  passed  with  great  tran- 
quillity, chiefly  in  reading  and  devotion.  All  his  family  that 
remained  in  England,  were  allowed  access  to  him.  It  consisted 
only  of  the  Princess  Elizabeth  and  the  Duke  of  Gloucester ;  for 
the  Duke  of  York  had  made  his  escape.  Grloucester  was  little 
more  than  an  infant ;  the  princess,  notwithstanding  her  tender 


430  SANDERS       UNION     SERIEb. 

years,  showed  an  advanced  judgment;  and  the  calamities  ot  her 
family  had  made  a  deep  impression  upon  her.  After  many 
pious  consolations  and  advices,  the  king  gave  her  in  charge  to 
tell  the  queen,  that,  during  the  whole  course  of  his  life,  he  had 
never  once,  even  in  thought,  failed  in  his  fidelity  towards  her ; 
and  that  his  conjugal  tenderness  and  his  life  should  have  an 
equal  duration. 

7.  To  the  young  duke,  too,  he  could  not  forbear  giving  some 
advice,  in  order  to  season  his  mind  with  early  principles  of 
loyalty  and  obedience  towards  his  brother,  who  was  so  soon 
to  be  his  sovereign.  Holding  him  on  his  knee,  he  said  :  "  Now 
they  will  cut  off  thy  father's  head."  At  t;liese  words  the  child 
looked  very  steadfastly  upon  him.  ''  Mark,  child  !  what  I  say  : 
they  will  cut  off  my  head  !  and,  perhaps,  make  thee  a  king  :  but 
mark  what  I  say;  thou  must  not  be  a  king  as  long  as  thy 
brothers  Charles  and  James  are  alive.  They  will  cut  off  thy 
brothers'  heads,  when  they  can  catch  them !  And  thy  head, 
too,  they  will  cut  off  at  last !  Therefore,  I  charge  thee,  do  not 
be  made  a  king  by  them  !"  The  duke  sighing,  replied  :  "  I  will 
be  torn  in  pieces  first  V  So  determined  an  answer  from  one  of 
so  tender  years,  filled  the  king's  eyes  with  tears  of  joy  and 
admiration. 

8.  Every  night  during  this  interval  the  king  slept  as  sound  as 
usual ;  though  the  noise  of  workmen  employed  in  framing  the 
scaffold,  and  other  preparations  for  his  execution,  continually 
resounded  in  his  ears.  The  morning  of  the  fatal  day  he  rose 
early,  and,  calling  Herbert,  one  of  his  attendants,  he  bade  him 
employ  more  than  usual  care  in  dressing  him,  and  preparing  him 
for  so  great  and  so  joyful  a  solemnity.  Bishop  Juxon,  a  man 
endowed  with  the  same  mild  and  steady  virtues  by  which  the 
king  himself  was  so  much  distinguished,  assisted  him  in  his 
devotions,  and  paid  the  last  melancholy  duties  to  his  friend  and 
sovereign. 

9.  The  street  before  Whitehall  was  the  place  destined  for  th« 
execution  5  for  it  was  intended,  by  choosing  that  very  place,  in 
sight  of  his  own  palace,  to  display  more  evidently  the  triumph 
of  popular  justice  over  royal  majesty.     When  the  king,  came 


RHETORICAL    READER.  431 

Upon  the  scaffold,  he  found  it  so  surrounded  with  soldiers  tuaf 
he  could  not  expect  to  be  heard  by  any  of  the  people :  he 
addressed,  therefore,  his  discourse  to  the  few  persons  who  were 
about  him;  particularly  Colonel  Tomlinson,  to  whose  2are  he  had 
lately  been  committed,  and  upon  whom,  as  upon  others,  his 
amiabls  deportment  wrought  an  entire  conversion. 

10.  He  justified  his  own  innocence  in  the  late  fatal  wars;  and 
observed  that  he  had  not  taken  arms  till  after  the  parliament 
had  enlisted  forces  :  nor  had  he  any  other  object,  in  his  warlike 
operations,  than  to  preserve  that  authority  entire  which  his 
predecessors  had  transmitted  to  him.  He  threw  not,  however, 
the  blame  upon  the  parliament,  but  was  more  inclined  to  think 
that  ill  instruments  had  interposed,  and  raised  in  them  fears  and 
jealousies  with  regard  to  his  intentions.  Though  innocent 
towards  his  peo})le,  he  acknowledged  the  equity  of  his  execution 
in  the  eyes  of  his  Maker ;  and  observed  that  an  unjust  sentence 
which  he  had  suffered  to  take  effect,  was  now  punished  by  an 
unjust  sentence  upon  himself 

11.  He  forgave  all  his  enemies,  even  the  chief  instruments  of 
his  death ;  but  exhorted  them  and  the  whole  nation  to  return  to  the 
ways  of  peace,  by  paying  obedience  to  their  lawful  sovereign,  his 
son  and  successor.  When  he  was  preparing  himself  for  the 
block,  Bishop  Juxon*  called  to  him :  "  There  is,  sir,  but  one  stage 
more,  which,  though  turbulent  and  troublesome,  is  yet  a  very 
short  one.  Consider,  it  will  soon  carry  you  a  great  way ;  it  will 
carry  you  from  earth  to  Heaven ;  and  there  you  shall  find,  to 
your  great  joy,  the  prize  to  which  you  hasten,  a  crown  of 
glory."  "  I  go,"  replied  the  king,  "  from  a  corruptible  to  an 
incorruptible  crown ;  where  no  disturbance  can  have  place." 
At  one  blow  was  his  head  severed  from  his  body.  A  man  in  a 
visor  performed  the  ofl&ce  of  executioner;  another,  in  a  like  dis> 
guise,  held  up  to  the  spectators  the  head  streaming  with  blood, 
and  cried  aloud :  "  This  is  the  head  of  a  traitor !" 

*  This  learned  and  pious  prelate  was,  after  the  execution  of  the  king, 
to  whom  he  was  devotodly  attached,  deprived  of  his  bishopric  and 
imprisoned,  because  he  would  not  diisclose  his  last  conversation  with 
the  king 


432  SANDERS'     UNION    SERIES 


EXERCISE  CXXVllI. 

Thomas  Campbell  wag  born  in  Glasgow,  Scotland,  July  15th,  1777,  and 
died  in  Boulogne,  France,  June,  1844.  He  was,  even  in  early  life,  a  devoted 
student;  being  specially  distinguished  as  a  classical  scholar.  He  was  a  poet, 
also,  from  his  very  boyhood.  In  1799  he  published  his  splendid  poem, 
entitled  "The  Pleasuuks  of  Hope;"  a  work  which  at  once  gave  him  the 
highest  literary  distinction.  After  this,  he  traveled  about  for  some  years: 
Winging  out,  every  now  and  then,  one  of  those  famous  smaller  pieces,  as  "The. 
Exile  of  Erin,"  '<  LochieVs  Warninr/,"  Ac,  which  are  now  familiar  to  all  tho 
eading  world.  For  a  long  time  after  this,  he  seems  to  have  been  principally 
engaged  in  writing  by  contract  for  booksellers :  living,  for  that  purpose,  in 
or  near  the  city  of  London.  He  was  an  ardent  patriot,  and  shared  largely 
the  enthusiasm  of  the  times.  To  his  exertions,  mainly,  the  London  Univer- 
sity owes  its  foundation ;  and  it  is  no  mean  proof  of  the  estimation  in  which 
he  was  held,  as  a  judicious  friend  of  learning,  that  he  was  twice  or  three 
times  elected  (first  in  1826)  Lord  Rector  of  the  University  of  Glasgow. 
Towards  the  lasfc,  however,  many  circumstances  conspired  to  embitter  his 
life,  and  we  read  the  nature  of  his  grief  in  his  own  melancholy  words, — 
"  J/y  wife  18  dead,  mi/  8on  ia  mad,  and  my  harp  unstrung."  Still,  however,  he 
continued  to  write  and  to  travel,  till  1843 ;  when,  settling  down  in  France, 
he  there  spent  the  short  and  sad  remainder  of  his  life.  His  poems  are  still 
10  well  known,  so  popular,  and  so  duly  appreciated,  that  any  specification 
>f  their  leading  characteristics  would  seem  almost  superfluous, 

PASSAGES  FROM  "THE  PLEASURES  OF  HOPE." 

THOMAS  CAMPBUX. 

I. 

HOPE    KINDLED    BY    DISTANT    OBJECTS. 

At  summer  eve,  when  heaven's  ethereal  bow 
Spans  with  bright  arch  the  glittering  hills  below, 
Why  to  yon  mountain  turns  the  musing  eye, 
Whose  sun-bright  summit  mingles  with  the  sky? 
Why  do  those  cliflFs  of  shadowy  tint  appear 
More  sweet  than  all  the  landscape  smiling  near  ? — 
'Tis  distance  lends  enchantment  to  the  view, 
And  robes  the  mountain  in  its  azure  hue. 
Thus,  with  delight  we  linger  to  survey 
The  promised  joys  of  life's  unmeasured  way, 
Thus,  from  afar,  each  dim-discover'd  scene 
More  pleasing  seems  than  all  the  past  have  been, 
And  every  form  that  fancy  can  repair 
From  dark  oblivion,  glows  divinely  there. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  488 

II. 

HOPE   LINGERED   WHEN    ALL   ELSE    HAD   FLED. 

Primeval  Hope,  the  Aonian*  Muses  say, 
When  Man  and  Nature  mourned  their  first  decaj-  j 
When  every  form  of  death,  and  every  woe, 
Shot  from  malignant  stars  to  earth  below ; 
When  Murder  bared  her  arm,  and  rampant  War 
Yoked  the  red  dragons  of  her  iron  car, 
When  Peace  and  Mercy,  banished  from  the  plain, 
Sprung  on  the  viewless  winds  to  Heaven  again; 
All,  all  forsook  the  friendless,  guilty  mind, 
"But  Hope,  the  charmer,  linger'd  still  behind. 

ITT. 

HOPE   ANIMATES    THE    HERO. 

Friend  of  the  brave  !  in  peril's  darkest  hour, 
Intrepid  Virtue  looks  to  thee  for  power; 
To  thee  the  heart  its  trembling  homage  yields, 
On  stormy  floods,  and  carnage-covered  fields, 
When  front  to  front  the  bannered  hosts  combine, 
Halt  ere  they  close,  and  form  the  dreadful  line. 
When  all  is  still  on  Death's  devoted  soil, 
The  march-worn  soldier  mingles  for  the  toil  I 
As  rings  his  glittering  tube,  he  lifts  on  high 
The  dauntless  brow,  and  spirit-speaking  eye. 
Hails  in  his  heart  the  triumph  yet  to  come, 
And  hears  thy  stormy  music  in  the  drum  I 

IV. 
HOPE  INVOKED  TO  CHEER  THE  HOME  OF  POVERTY. 

Propitious  Power  !  when  rankling  cares  annoy 
The  sacred  home  of  Hymenean  joy ; 

*  Aonian,  that  is,  Grecian  ;  Aonia  being  the  earlier  name  of  Boeotia, 
in  which  wag  situated  Mount  Helicon,  the  fabled  abode  of  the  Muses 
19  QK 


434  SANDERS'     UNION-    SERIES. 

When  doomed  to  Poverty's  sequestered  dell, 

The  wedded  pair  of  love  and  virtue  dwell, 

Unpitied  by  the  world,  unknown  to  fame, 

Their  woes,  their  wishes,  and  their  hearts  the  &ame — 

Oh,  there,  prophetic  Hope !  thy  smile  bestow, 

And  chase  the  pangs  that  worth  should  never  know — 

There,  as  the  parent  deals  his  scanty  store 

To  friendless  babes,  and  weeps  to  give  no  more, 

Tell,  that  his  manly  race  shall  yet  assuage 

Their  father's  wrongs,  and  shield  his  latter  age. 

V. 

HOPE,    THE    mother's    INSPIRATION. 

Lo !  at  the  couch  where  infant  beauty  sleeps, 

Her  silent  watch  the  mournful  mother  keeps ', 

She,  while  the  lovely  babe  unconscious  lies, 

Smiles  on  her  slumbering  child  with  pensive  eyes. 

And  weaves  a  song  of  melancholy  joy  : — 

"  Sleep,  image  of  thy  father,  sleep,  my  boy  j 

No  lingering  hour  of  sorrow  shall  be  thine ; 

No  sigh  that  rends  thy  father's  heart  and  mine ; 

Bright  as  his  manly  sire  the  son  shall  be 

In  form  and  soul ;  but  ah  !  more  blest  than  he  ' 

Thy  fame,  thy  worth,  thy  filial  love  at  last. 

Shall  soothe  his  aching  heart  for  all  the  past — 

With  many  a  smile  my  solitude  repay, 

And  chase  the  world's  ungenerous  scorn  away. 

"  And  say,  when  summoned  from  the  world  and  thee, 

I  lay  my  head  beneath  the  willow  tree. 

Wilt  thou,  sweet  mourner  !  at  my  stone  appear, 

And  soothe  my  parted  spirit  lingering  near? 

Oh,  wilt  thou  come  at  evening  hour  to  shed 

The  tears  of  Memory  o'er  my  narrow  bed ; 

With  aching  temples  on  thy  hand  reclined, 

Muse  on  the  last  farewell  I  leave  behind, 

Breathe  a  deep  sigh  to  winds  that  murmur  low, 

And  think  on  all  my  love,  and  all  my  woe  V* 


RHETORICAL    READER.  435 

VI. 

HOPE    SOOTHES   EVEN    THE    POOR    MANIAC. 

Hark !  the  "wild  maniac  sings,  to  chide  the  gale 

That  wafts  so  slow  her  lover's  distant  sail; 

She,  sad  spectatress,  on  the  wintry  shore, 

Watched  the  rude  surge  his  shroudless  corse  that  bore. 

Knew  the  pale  form,  and  shrieking  in  amaze, 

Clasped  her  cold  hands,  and  fixed  her  maddening  gaze  j 

Poor  widowed  wretch  !  'twas  there  she  wept  in  vain, 

Till  Memory  fled  her  agonizing  brain ; — 

But  Mercy  gave,  to  charm  the  sense  of  woe, 

Ideal  peace,  that  Truth  could  ne'er  bestow; 

Warm  on  her  heart  the  joys  of  Fancy  beam, 

And  aimless  Hope  delights  her  darkest  dream. 

VII. 

HOPE  GIVES  PLEDGE  OP  PROGRESS 

Come,  bright  Improvement !  on  the  car  of  Time, 
And  rule  the  spacious  world  from  clime  to  clime; 
Thy  handmaid  Arts  shall  every  wild  explore, 
Trace  every  wave,  and  culture  every  shore. 
On  Erie's  banks,  where  tigers  steal  along. 
And  the  dread  Indian  chants  a  dismal  song, 
Where  human  fiends  on  midnight  errands  walk, 
And  bathe  in  brains  the  murderous  tomahawk, 
There  shall  the  flocks  on  thymy  pasture  stray, 
And  shepherds  dance  at  summer's  opening  day 

vin. 

NO    HOPE   OP   HAPPINESS   WITHOUT   WOMABi 

Till  Hymen  brought  his  love-delighted  hour 
There  dwelt  no  joy  in  Eden's  rosy  bower ! 
In  vain  the  viewless  seraph  lingering  there. 
At  starry  midnight,  charmed  the  silent  air : 


436  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES. 

Ill  vain  the  wild-bird  caroled  on  the  steep, 

To  hail  the  sun,  slow  wheeling  from  the  deep 

In  vain,  to  soothe  the  solitary  shade, 

Aerial  notes  in  mingling  measure  played; 

The  summer  wind  that  shook  the  spangled  tree, 

The  whispering  wave,  the  murmur  of  the  bee ; — 

Still  slowly  passed  the  melancholy  day. 

And  still  the  stranger  wist  not  where  to  stray. 

The  world  was  sad  ! — the  garden  was  a  wild ! 

And  man,  the  hermit,  sighed — till  woman  smiled 

IX. 
LIFE    WITHOUT   CHRISTIAN    HOPE. 

Oh  !  lives  there,  Heaven,  beneath  thy  dread  expanse. 
One  hopeless,  dark  idolater  of  Chance, 
Content  to  feed,  with  pleasures  unrefined, 
The  lukewarm  passions  of  a  lowly  mind  j 
Who,  moldering  earthward  'reft  of  every  trust, 
In  joyless  union  wedded  to  the  dust. 
Could  all  his  parting  energy  dismiss. 
And  call  this  world  sufficient  bliss  ? — 
Ah,  me  !  the  laureled  wreath  that  murder  rears, 
Blood-nursed,  and  watered  by  the  widoVs  tears, 
Seems  not  so  foul,  so  tainted  and  so  dread 
'  As  waves  the  nightshade  round  the  skeptic  head. 
What  is  the  bigot's  torch,  the  tyrant's  chain  ? 
I  smile  on  death,  if  heavenward  Hope  remain  I 

X. 

HOPE   THE   SOLE    SOLACE   IN    THE   DYING    HOUR. 

Unfading  Hope  !  when  life's  last  embers  burn, 
When  soul  to  soul,  and  dust  to  dust  return  ! 
Heaven  to  thy  charge  resigns  the  awful  hour ! 
Oh !  then,  thy  kingdom  comes !     Immortal  Power  I 


RHETORICAL    READER.  437 

What  though  each  spark  of  earth-born  rapture  fly 
The  quivering  lip,  pale  cheek,  and  closing  eye ! 
Bright  to  the  soul  thy  seraph  hands  convey 
The  morning  dream  of  life's  eternal  day — 
Then,  then,  the  triumph  and  the  trance  begin, 
And  all  the  phoenix-spirit  burns  within ! 
Hark  !  as  the  spirit  eyes,  with  eagle  gaze, 
The  dawn  of  Heaven  undazzled  by  the  blaze, 
On  heavenly  winds  that  waft  her  to  the  sky, 
Float  the  sweet  tones  of  star-born  melody. 

XI. 

HOPE    OF    FUTURE    HAPPINESS   INSPIRING. 

Inspiring  thought  of  rapture  yet  to  be, 

The  tears  of  Love  were  hopeless,  but  for  thee ! 

If  in  that  frame  no  deathless  spirit  dwell, 

If  that  faint  murmur  be  the  last  farewell, 

If  Fate  unite  the  faithful  but  to  part. 

Why  is  their  memory  sacred  to  the  heart  ? 

Why  does  the  brother  of  my  childhood  seem 

Restored  awhile  in  every  pleasing  dream  ? 

Why  do  1  joy  the  lonely  spot  to  view, 

By  artless  friendship  blessed  when  life  was  new  ? 

XII. 
HOPE   ETERNAL. 

Eternal  Hope  !  when  yonder  spheres  sublime 
Pealed  their  first  notes  to  sound  the  march  of  Time, 
Thy  joyous  youth  began — but  not  to  fade, — 
When  all  the  sister  planets  have  decayed ; 
When  rapt  in  fire  the  realms  of  ether  glow, 
And  Heaven's  last  thunder  shakes  the  world  below; 
Thou,  undismayed,  shalt  o  er  the  ruins  smile, 
And  light  thy  torch  at  Nature's  funeral  pile  ! 


I<J8  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES. 


EXERCISE  CXXIX. 


James  1"£nimoi4k  Coopkb,  the  great  American  novelist,  was  born  in  Bur- 
•ingtoii,  iNew  Jeisej,  tieptember  ioLii,  1789,  aud  died  at  Uooperdtowii,  New 
York,  September  i4tli,  1651.  While  yet  a  cliild,  lie  wont  with  his  family  to 
reside  ou  the  borders  of  Otsego  Lake,  where  his  lather  had  acquired  a  title  to 
Bome  large  tracts  of  land.  Here  he  lived,  till  his  thirteenth  year,  amid  thd 
Boeues  aud  circumstances  incidental  to  trontier  life.  At  that  early  age  he 
iTAs  taken  out  of  the  midst  of  home  influonoos,  and  sent  to  Yale  College. 
A.fter  continuing  his  couiiectiou  with  tiie  college  for  three  years,  he  left  it  of 
nis  own  accord,  and  eiiturcd  the  navy  :  serving  for  six  years,  successively,  as 
common  sailor,  midshipman,  and  lieutenant.  It  was  during  this  part  of  his 
life,  that  he  acquired  that  wonderful  familiarity  with  nautical  affairs,  which 
is  so  prominent  a  characteristic  in  some  of  his  works.  In  1811  he  was 
married,  and  sOon  after  went  to  reside  in  Mamaroneck,  in  Westchester  coun- 
ty. New  York,  having  previously  resigned  his  post  in  the  navy.  Here  he 
commenced  that  splendid  career  of  authorship,  wliich  has  given  him  a 
reputation  wide  as  the  world,  and  enduring  as  time,  and  which  was  continued, 
botii  at  home  and  abroad,  at  comparaHvely  short  intervals,  till  the  rapid 
decline  that,  by  a  lew  mojiths,  preceded  his  death,  arrested,  and  forever,  the 
pro£rrcs8  of  his  pen.  His  salient  points,  as  a  writer,  are  well  shown  in  the 
following  short  sketch  ])y  Gri8wo!d. 

Rupus  W,  GmswOLD  was  born  in  Rutland  County,  Vermont,  in  the  year 
1815,  and  died  in  August,  1857.  Though  otherwise  a  large  contributor  to 
the  literary  stock  of  the  country,  he  is  chiefly  known  by  his  works  on 
American  Literature.  These  consist  of  specimens  from  American  authors, 
with  notes  biographical  and  critical,  and,  as  a  general  thing,  display  a  fair, 
appreciative  spirit  in  estimating  literary  merit.  Mr.  Griswold  has  don* 
much  to  bring  American  authors  into  deserved  notice. 

COOPER,  THE  AMERICAN  NOVELIST. 

aUFUS  W.  GRISWOLft 

1.  Cooper  has  the  faculty  of  giving  to  his  pictures  an  aston- 
ishing reality.  They  are  not  mere  transcripts  of  nature,  though 
as  such  they  would  possess  extraordinary  merit,  but  actual  crea- 
tions, embodying  the  very  spirit  of  intelligent  and  genial  experi- 
ence and  observation.  His  Indians,  notwithstanding  all  that 
has  been  written  to  the  contrary,  are  no  more  inferior  in  fidelity 
than  they  are  in  poetical  interest  to  those  of  his  most  successful 
imitators  or  rivals. 

2.  His  hunters  and  trappers  have  the  same  vividness  and 
freshness,  and,  in  the  whole  realm  of  fiction,  there  is  nothing 
more  actual,  harmonious,  aud  sustained.     They  evince  not  onl^ 


RllETOHICAL    READER. 


131* 


tlie  first  order  of  inventive  power,  but  a  profoundly  pliilosopliical 
study  of  the  influences  of  situation  upon  human  character. 

3.  He  treads  the  deck  with  the  conscious  pride  of  home  and 
dominion  :  the  aspects  of  the  sea  and  sky,  the  terrors  of  the 
tornado,  the  excitement  of  the  chase,  the  tumult  of  battle,  fire, 
and  wreck,  are  presented  by  him  with  a  freedom  and  breadth 
of  outline,  a  glow  and  strength  of  coloring  and  contrast,  and  a 
distinctness  and  truth  of  general  and  particular  conception,  that 
place  him  far  in  advance  of  all  the  other  artists  who  have  at- 
tempted with  pen  or  pencil  to  paint  the  ocean. 

4.  The  same  vigorous  originality  is  stamped  upon  his  nautical 
characters.  He  goes  on  board  his  ship  with  his  own  creations, 
disdaining  all  society  and  assistance  but  that  with  which  he  is 
thus  surrounded.  Long  Tom  Coffin,  Tom  Tiller,  Trysail,  Bob 
Yarn,  the  boisterous  Nightingale,  the  mutinous  Nighthead,  the 
fierce  but  honest  Boltrope,  and  others  who  crowd  upon  our 
memories,  as  familiar  as  if  we  had  ourselves  been  afloat  with 
them,  attest  the  triumph  of  this  self-reliance. 

5.  And  when,  as  if  to  rebuke  the  charge  of  envy  that  he 
owed  his  successes  to  the  novelty  of  his  scenes  and  persons,  he 
entered  upon  fields  which  for  centuries  had  been  illustrated  by 
the  first  geniuses  of  Europe,  his  abounding  power  and  inspira- 
tion were  vindicated  by  that  series  of  political  novels  ending 
with  The  Bravo,  which  have  the  same  supremacy,  in  their  class, 
that  is  held  by  The  Pilot  and  The  Red  Bover  among  stories 
of  the  sea. 

6.  It  has  been  urged  that  his  leading  characters  are  essentially 
alike,  having  no  difterence  but  that  which  results  from  situation. 
But  this  opinion  will  not  bear  investigation.  It  evidently  arose 
from  the  habit  of  clothing  his  heroes  alike  with  an  intense  in- 
dividuality, which  under  all  circumstances  sustains  the  sympathy 
they  at  first  awaken,  without  the  aid  of  those  accessories  to  which 
artists  of  less  power  are  compelled  to  resort.  Very  few  authors 
have  added  more  than  one  original  and  striking  character  to  the 
world  of  imagination ;  none  has  added  more  than  Cooper ;  and 
his  are  all  as  distinct  and  actual  as  the  personages  that  stalk 
before  us  on  the  stage  of  history. 


440  SANDERS'     UNION     SERIES. 


EXERCISE  CXXX. 

The  scene,  in  the  splendid  description  which  follows,  is  on  the  eastern 
coast  of  the  Island  of  Great  Britain.  The  time  supposed  is  that  of  the 
American  Revolution.  The  frigate  is  an  American  vessel.  She  is  making 
her  way,  under  a  pilot  just  taken  on  board,  through  a  narrow  passage 
among  dangerous  shoals,  to  the  open  sea.  The  pilot,  here  called  Mr. 
Gray,  whom  no  one,  except  the  captain,  knows,  turns  out,  in  the  pro- 
gress of  the  story,  to  be  the  famous  Paul  Jones. 

ESCAPE  OF  THE  FRIGATE. 

J.  rENIMORE  COOPXB. 

1.  The  Pilot  alone,  in  that  confused  and  busy  throng,  where 
voice  rose  above  voice,  and  cry  echoed  cry,  in  quick  succession, 
appeared  as  if  he  held  no  interest  in  the  important  stake.  With 
his  eyes  steadily  fixed  on  the  approaching  mist,  and  his  arms 
folded  together  in  composure,  he  stood  calmly  waiting  the 
result. 

The  ship  had  fallen  off,  with  her  broadside  to  the  sea,  and 
was  become  unmanageable,  and  the  sails  were  already  brought 
into  the  folds  necessary  to  her  security,  when  the  quick  and 
heavy  fluttering  of  canvas  was  thrown  across  the  water,  with 
all  the  gloomy  and  chilling  sensations  that  such  sounds  produce, 
where  darkness  and  danger  unite  to  appall  the  seaman. 

"  The  schooner  has  it  I"  cried  Grifl&th  :  "  Barnstable  has  held 
on,  like  himself,  to  the  last  moment.  God  send  that  the  squall 
leave  him  cloth  enough  to  keep  him  from  the  shore  V 

^'  His  sails  are  easily  handled,"  the  commander  observed, 
"  and  she  must  be  over  the  principal  danger.  We  are  falling 
off  before  it,  Mr.  Gray ;  shall  we  try  a  cast  of  the  lead  ?" 

2.  The  Pilot  turned  from  his  contemplative  posture,  and  moved 
slowly  across  the  deck  before  he  returned  any  reply  to  this  ques- 
tion— like  a  man  who  not  only  felt  that  everything  depended  on 
himself,  but  that  he  was  equal  to  the  emergency. 

'"Tis  unnecessary,"  he,  at  length,  said;  "  'twould  be  certain 
destruction  to  be  taken  aback ;  and  it  is  difl&cult  to  say,  within 
several  points,  how  the  wind  may  strike  us." 

"  'Tis  difl&cult  no  longer,"  cried  Griffith ;  "  for  here  Yi  comes, 
and  in  right  earnest !" 


RHETORICAL    READER.  44l 

3.  The  rusliing  sounds  of  the  wiud  were  now,  indeed,  heard  at 
hand ;  and  the  words  were  hardly  passed  the  lips  of  the  young 
lieutenant,  before  the  vessel  bowed  down  heavily  to  one  side, 
and  then,  as  she  began  to  move  through  the  water,  rose  again 
majestically  to  her  upright  position,  as  if  saluting,  like  a  courte- 
ous ^.hampion,  the  powerful  antagonist  with  which  she  was  about 
to  contend.  Not  another  minute  elapsed,  before  the  ship  was 
throwing  the  waters  aside,  with  a  lively  progress,  and,  obedient 
to  her  helm,  was  brought  as  near  to  the  desired  course  as  the 
direction  of  the  wind  would  allow. 

4.  The  hurry  and  bustle  on  the  yards  gradually  subsided,  and 
the  men  slowly  descended  to  the  deck,  all  straining  their  eyes  to 
pierce  the  gloom  in  which  they  were  enveloped,  and  some 
shaking  their  heads,  in  melancholy  doubt,  afraid  to  express  the 
apprehensions  they  really  entertained.  All  on  board  anxiously 
waited  for  the  fury  of  the  gale ;  for  there  were  none  so  ignorant 
or  inexperienced,  in  that  gallant  frigate,  as  not  to  know  that,  as 
yet,  they  only  felt  the  infant  effects  of  the  wind.  Each  moment, 
however,  it  increased  in  power,  though  so  gradual  was  the 
alteration,  that  the  relieved  mariners  began  to  believe  that  all 
their  gloomy  forebodings  were  not  to  be  realized.  During  this 
short  interval  of  uncertainty,  no  other  sounds  were  heard  than 
the  whistling  of  the  breeze,  as  it  passed  quickly  through  the 
mass  of  rigging  that  belonged  to  the  vessel,  and  the  dashing  of 
the  spray  that  began  to  fly  from  her  bows,  like  the  foam  of  a 
•cataract. 

5.  "  It  blows  fresh,"  cried  Grifl5th,  who  was  the  first  to  speak 
in  that  moment  of  doubt  and  anxiety ;  "■  but  it  is  no  more  than 
a  cap-full  of  wind  after  all.  Give  us  elbow-room,  and  the  right 
canvas,  Mr.  Pilot,  and  I'll  handle  the  ship  like  a  gentleman's 
yacht,  in  this  breeze." 

"  Will  she  stay,  think  ye,  under  this  sail  ?"  said  the  low  voice 
A  the  stranger. 

6.  "  She  will  do  all  that  man,  in  reason,  can  ask  of  wood  and 

iron,"  returned  the  lieutenant;  "but  the  vessel  don't  float  the 

ocean,  that  will  tack  under  double-reefed  topsails  alone,  against 

a  heav]^  sea.     Help  her  with  the  courses,  pilot,  and  you  shall 

see  her  come  round  like  a  dariCino;-master." 

R 


442  SANDERS'     UNION     SERIES. 

"  Let  us  feel  the  strength  of  the  gale  first,"  returned  the  man 
who  was  called  Mr.  Gray;  moving  from  the  side  of  Griffith  to  the 
weather  gangway  of  the  vessel,  where  he  stood  in  silence,  looking 
ahead  of  the  ship,  with  an  air  of  singular  coolness  and  abstraction. 

7.  All  the  lanterns  had  been  extinguished  on  the  deck  of  the 
frigate,  when  her  anchor  was  secured;  and,  as  the  first  mist  of  the 
gale  had  passed  over,  it  was  succeeded  by  a  faint  light  that  was 
a  good  deal  aided  by  the  glittering  foam  of  the  waters,  which 
now  broke,  in  white  curls,  around  the  vessel  in  every  direction. 
The  land  could  be  faintly  discerned,  rising  like  a  heavy  bank  of 
black  fog,  above  the  margin  of  the  waters,  and  was  only  dis- 
tinguishable from  the  heavens  by  its  deeper  gloom  and  obscurity 

8.  The  last  rope  was  coiled,  and  deposited  in  its  proper  place 
by  the  seamen,  and,  for  several  minutes,  the  stillness  of  death 
pervaded  the  crowded  decks.  It  was  evident  to  every  one,  that 
their  ship  wjus  dashing,  at  a  prodigious  rate,  through  the  waves ; 
and,  as  she  was  approaching,  with  such  velocity,  the  quarter  of 
the  bay  where  the  shoals  and  dangers  were  known  to  be  situated, 
nothing  but  the  habits  of  the  most  exact  discipline  could  sup 
press  the  uneasiness  of  the  officers  and  men  within  their  own 
bosoms.  At  length  the  voice  of  Captain  Muuson  was  heard, 
calling  to  the  pilot. 

9.  "  Shall  I  send  a  hand  into  the  chains,  Mr.  Gray,"  he  said, 
"  and  try  our  water  ?" 

Although  this  question  was  asked  aloud,  and  the  interest  it 
excited  drew  many  of  the  officers  and  men  around  him,  in  eager 
impatience  for  his  answer,  it  was  unheeded  by  the  man  to  whom 
it  was  addressed.  His  head  rested  on  his  hand,  as  he  leaned 
over  the  hammock-cloths  of  the  vessel,  and  his  whole  air  was 
that  of  one  whoso  thoughts  wandered  from  the  pressing  necessity 
of  their  situation.  Griffith  was  among  those  who  had  approached 
the  pilot;  and,  after  waiting  a  moment,  from  respect,  to  hear  the 
answer  to  his  commander's  question  he  presumed  on  his  own 
rank,  and,  leaving  the  circle  that  stood  at  a  little  distance, 
stepped  to  the  side  of  the  mysterious  guardian  of  their  lives. 

10.  "  Captain  Munson  desires  to  know  whether  you  wish  a  ca«t 
of  the  lead?"  said  the  young  officer,  with  a  little  impatience  of 
manner.     No  inimediate  answer  was  made  to  this  repetition  of 


RHETORICAL    READER.  443 

the  qnestion,  and  Griffith  laid  his  hand  unceremoniously  on  the 
shoulder  of  the  other,  with  an  intent  to  rouse  him  before  he 
made  another  application  for  a  reply ;  but  the  convulsive  start 
of  the  pilot  held  him  silent  in  amazement. 

11.  "  Fall  back  there,"  said  the  lieutenant,  sternly,  to  tlie 
men,  who  were  closing  around  them  in  a  compact  circle ;  "  away 
with  you  to  your  stations,  and  see  all  clear  for  stays."  The 
dense  mass  of  heads  dissolved,  at  this  order,  like  the  water  of  one 
of  the  waves  commingling  with  the  ocean,  and  the  lieutenant 
and  his  companions  were  left  by  themselves. 

"  This  is  not  a  time  for  musing,  Mr.  Gray,"  continued  Griffith; 
••  remember  our  compact,  and  look  to  your  charge — is  it  not  time 
to  put  the  vessel  in  stays  ?     Of  what  are  you  dreaming  ?" 

12.  The  pilot  laid  his  hand  on  the  extended  arm  of  the 
lieutenant,  and  grasped  it  with  a  convulsive  pressure,  as  he 
answered — 

"  'Tis  a  dream  of  reality.  You  are  young,  Mr.  Griffith,  nor 
am  I  past  the  noon  of  life ;  but  should  you  live  fifty  years  longer, 
you  never  can  see  and  experience  what  I  have  encountered  in 
my  little  period  of  three-and-thirty  years  !" 

A  good  deal  astonished  at  this  burst  of  feeling,  so  singular  at 
euch  a  moment,  the  young  sailor  was  at  a  loss  for  a  reply ;  but, 
as  his  duty  was  uppermost  in  his  thoughts,  he  still  dwelt  on  the 
theme  that  most  interested  him. 

"  I  hope  much  of  your  experience  has  been  on  this  coast  j  for 
the  ship  travels  lively,"  he  said;  "and  the  daylight  showed  ua 
so  much  to  dread,  that  we  do  not  feel  over-valiant  in  the  dark. 
How  much  longer  shall  we  stand  on,  upon  this  tack  ?" 

13.  The  pilot  turned  slowly  from  the  side  of  the  vessel,  and 
walked  towards  the  commander  of  the  frigate,  as  he  replied,  iu 
a  tone  that  seemed  deeply  agitated  by  his  melancholy  reflec- 
tions^— 

"  You  have  your  wish,  then ;  much,  very  much  of  my  early 
life  was  passed  on  this  dreaded  coast.  What  to  you  is  all  dark- 
ness  and  gloom,  to  me  is  as  light  as  if  a  noonday  sun  shone  upon 
it.  But  tack  your  ship,  sir,  tack  your  ship ;  I  would  see  how 
she  works  before  we  reach  the  point  where  she  must  behave 
well,  or  we  perish  " 


444  SANDERS'     UNION     SERIES. 

14.  Grifl5th  gazed  after  him  in  wonder,  while  the  pilot  slow!}/ 
paced  the  quarter-deck,  and  then,  rousing  from  his  trance,  gav6 
forth  the  cheering  ordo-  that  called  each  man  to  his  station,  to 
perform  the  desired  evolution.  The  confident  assurances  which 
the  young  oflBcer  had  given  to  the  pilot,  respecting  the  qualities 
)f  his  vessel  and  his  own  ability  to  manage  her,  were  fully 
realized  by  the  result. 

15.  The  helm  was  no  sooner  put  a-lee,  than  the  huge  ship 
bore  up  gallantly  against  the  wind,  and,  dashing  directly  through 
the  waves,  threw  the  foam  high  into  the  air,  as  she  looked  boldly 
into  the  very  eye  of  the  wind ;  and  then,  yielding  gracefully  to 
its  power,  she  fell  off  on  the  other  tack,  with  her  head  pointed 
from  those  dangerous  shoals  that  she  had  so  recently  approached 
with  such  terrifying  velocity.  The  heavy  yards  swung  round, 
as  if  they  had  been  vanes  to  indicate  the  currents  of  the  air; 
and,  in  a  few  moments,  the  frigate  again  moved,  with  stately 
progress,  through  the  water,  leaving  the  rocks  and  shoals  behind 
her  on  one  side  of  the  bay,  but  advancing  towards  those  that 
offered  equal  danger  on  the  other. 

16.  During  this  time  the  sea  was  becoming  more  agitated,  and 
the  violence  of  the  wind  was  gradually  increasing.  The  latter 
no  longer  whistled  amid  the  cordage  of  the  vessel,  but  it  seemed 
to  howl,  surlily,  as  it  passed  the  complicated  machinery  that  the 
frigate  obtruded  on  its  path.  An  endless  succession  of  white 
surges  rose  above  the  heavy  billows,  and  the  very  air  was  glitter- 
ing with  the  light  that  was  disengaged  from  the  ocean. 

17.  The  ship  yielded  each  moment  more  and  more  before  the 
storm,  and  in  less  than  half  an  hour  from  the  time  that  she  had 
lifted  her  anchor,  she  was  driven  along  with  tremendous  fury  by 
the  full  power  of  a  gale  of  wind.  Still  the  hardy  and  experi- 
enced mariners  who  directed  her  movements,  held  her  to  the 
course  that  was  necessary  to  their  preservation,  and  still  Grriffitb 
gave  forth,  when  directed  by  their  unknown  pilot,  those  orders 
that  turned  her  in  the  narrow  channel  where  alone  safety  was  to 
be  found. 

18.  So  far,  the  performance  of  his  duty  appeared  easy  to  the 
stranger,  and  he  gave  the  required  directions  in  those  still,  calm 
tones,  that  formed  so  remarkable  a  contrast  to  the  responsibility 


RHETORICAL    READER.  445 

of  his  situation.  But,  wlieu  the  land  was  becoming  dim,  in  dis- 
tanc6  as  well  as  darkness,  and  the  agitated  sea  alone  was  to  be 
discovered  as  it  swept  by  them  in  foam,  he  broke  in  upon  the 
monotonous  roaring  of  the  tempest  with  the  sounds  of  his  voice, 
seeming  to  shake  off  his  apathy,  and  rouse  himself  to  the  occa- 
sion. 

19.  "  Now  is  the  time  to  watch  her  closely,  Mr.  Griffith,^'  he 
sried ;  "  here  we  get  the  true  tide  and  the  real  danger.  Place 
the  best  quartermaster  of  your  ship  in  those  chains,  and  let  an 
officei  stand  by  him,  and  see  that  he  gives  us  the  right  water." 

"  I  will  take  that  office  on  myself,"  said  the  captain;  "pass  a 
light  into  the  weather  main-chains." 

"Stand  by  your  braces!"  exclaimed  the  pilot  with  startling 
quickness.     "  Heave  away  that  lead  !" 

20.  These  preparations  taught  the  crew  to  expect  the  crisis, 
and  every  officer  and  man  stood  in  fearful  silence,  at  his  assigned 
station,  awaiting  the  issue  of  the  trial.  Even  the  quartermaster, 
at  the  cun,  gave  out  the  orders  to  the  men  at  the  wheel,  in  deeper 
and  hoarser  tones  than  usual,  as  if  anxious  not  to  disturb  the 
quiet  and  order  of  the  vessel. 

While  this  deep  expectation  pervaded  the  frigate,  the  piercing 
cry  of  the  leadsman,  as  he  called  "  by  the  mark  seven,"  rose 
above  the  tempest,  crossed  over  the  decks,  and  appeared  to  pass 
away  to  leeward,  borne  on  the  blast  like  thv  warnings  of  some 
water  spirit. 

"  'Tis  well,"  returned  the  pilot,  calmly;  "try  it  again." 

21.  The  short  pause  was  succeeded  by  another  cry,  "  and  a 
half  fiv«  !" 

"  She  shoals  !  she  shoals  !"  exclaimed  Griffith  ;  "  keep  her  a 
good  full  " 

"  Ay  !  you  must  hold  the  vessel  in  command,"  said  the  pilot, 
with  those  cool  tones  that  are  most  appalling  in  critical  moments, 
because  they  seem  to  denote  most  preparation  and  care.  The 
third  call,  "  by  the  deep  four !"  was  followed  by  a  prompt  direc 
tion  from  the  stranger  to  tack,  Griffith  seemed  to  emulate  the 
coolness  of  the  pilot,  in  issuing  the  necessary  orders  to  execute 
this  maneuver. 


t46  SANDERS'     UNION    SERIES. 

EXERCISE  CXXXI 
ESC\PE  OF  THE   FRIGATE   {Continued). 


J.   FENIMORE   OOOrER. 


1.  The  vessel  rose  slowly  from  the  inclined  position  into  which 
she  had  been  forced  by  the  tempest,  and  the  sails  were  shaking 
violently,  as  if  to  release  themselves  from  their  confinement, 
while  the  ship  stemmed  the  billows,  when  the  well-known  voice 
of  the  sailing-master  was  heard  shouting  from  the  forecastle — 

"  Breakers  !  breakers,  dead  ahead  !" 

This  appalling  sound  seemed  yet  to  be  lingering  about  the 
ship,  when  a  second  voice  cried — 

"  Breakers  on  our  lee-bow  I" 

"  We  are  in  a  bite  of  the  shoals,  Mr.  Gray,''  cried  the  com- 
mander. "She  loses  her  way;  perhaps,  an  anchor  might  hold 
her." 

"  Clear  away  that  best  bower !"  shouted  Grriffith,  through  his 
trumpet. 

"  Hold  on  !"  cried  the  pilot,  in  a  voice  that  reached  the  very 
hearts  of  all  who  heard  him  ;  "  hold  on  everything  I" 

2.  The  young  man  turned  fiercely  to  the  daring  stranger,  who 
thus  defied  the  discipline  of  his  vessel,  and  at  once  demanded — 

"  Who  is  it  that  dares  to  countenuaud  my  orders  ?  is  it  not 
enough  that  you  run  the  ship  into  danger,  but  you  must  inter- 
fere to  keep  her  there  !     If  another  word — " 

"  Peace,  Mr.  Griffith,"  interrupted  the  captain,  bending  from 
the  rigging,  his  gray  locks  blowing  about  in  the  wind,  and  adding 
a  look  of  wildness  to  the  haggard  care  that  he  exhibited  by  the 
light  of  his  lantern  ;  "  yield  the  trumpet  to  Mr.  Gray  :  ne  alono 
uan  save  us." 

8,  Griffith  threw  his  speaking-trumpet  on  the  deck,  and,  as 
he  walked  proudly  away,  muttered  in  bitterness  of  feehng — 

"  Then  all  is  lost,  indeed !  and,  among  the  rest,  the  foolish 
hopes  with  which  I  visited  this  coast." 

There  was,  however,  no  time  for  reply;  the  ship  had  been 
rapidly  runnino-  into  the  wind,  and,  as  the  efibrts  of  the  crew 


RHETORICAL    READER.  447 

were  paralyzed  by  the  contradictory  orders  they  had  heard,  she 
gradually  lost  her  way,  and,  in  a  few  seconds,  all  her  sails  were 
taken  aback. 

4.  Before  the  crew  understood  their  situation,  the  pilot  Irtid 
applied  the  trumpet  to  his  mouth,  and,  in  a  voice  that  rose  above 
the  tempest,  he  thundered  forth  his  orders.  Each  command 
wa&  given  distinctly,  and  with  a  precision  that  showed  him  to 
be  master  of  his  profession.  The  helm  was  kept  fast,  the  head- 
yards  swung  up  heavily  against  the  wind,  and  the  vessel  was 
fioon  whirling  round  on  her  heel,  with  a  retrograde  movement. 

5.  Griffith  was  too  much  of  a  seaman  not  to  perceive  that  tho 
pilot  had  seized,  with  a  perception  almost  intuitive,  the  only 
method  that  promised  to  extricate  the  vessel  from  her  situation. 
He  was  young,  impetuous,  and  proud — but  he  was,  also,  gener- 
ous. Forgetting  his  resentment  and  his  mortification,  he  rushed 
forward  among  the  men,  and,  by  his  presence  and  example, 
added  certainty  to  the  experiment.  The  ship  fell  off  slowly 
before  the  gale,  and  bowed  her  yards  nearly  to  the  water,  as  she 
felt  the  blast  pouring  its  fury-on  her  broadside,  while  the  surly 
waves  beat  violently  against  her  stern,  as  if  in  reproach  at 
departing  from  her  usual  manner  of  moving. 

6.  The  voice  of  the  pilot,  however,  was  still  heard,  steady 
and  calm,  and  yet  so  clear  and  high  as  to  reach  every  ear ;  and 
ihe  obedient  seamen  whirled  the  yards  at  his  bidding,  in  despite 
of  the  tempest,  as  if  they  handled  the  toys  of  their  childhood. 
When  the  ship  had  fallen  off  dead  before  the  wind,  her  head- 
sails  were  shaken,  her  after-yards  trimmed,  and  her  helm  shifted, 
before  she  had  time  to  run  upon  the  danger  that  had  threatened 
as  well  to  leeward  as  to  windward.  The  beautiful  fabric,  obe- 
dient to  her  government,  threw  her  bows  up  gracefully  towards 
the  wind  again ;  and,  as  her  sails  were  trimmed,  moved  out  from 
amongst  the  dangerous  shoals,  in  which  she  had  been  embayed, 
a*  steadily  and  swiftly  as  she  had  approached  them. 

7.  A  moment  of  breathless  astonishment  succeeded  the  accom- 
plishment of  this  nice  maneuver,  but  there  was  no  time  for  the 
usual  expressions  of  surprise.  The  stranger  still  held  the 
trumpet,  and  continued  to  lift  his  voice  amid  the  bowlings  of 


448  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES 

the  blast,  whenever  prudence  or  skill  required  any  change  in 
the  management  of  the  ship.  For  an  hour  longer  there  was  a 
fearful  struggle  for  their  preservation,  the  channel  becoming  at 
each  step  more  complicated,  and  the  shoals  thickening  around 
the  mariners  on  every  side. 

8.  The  lead  was  cast  rapidly,  and  the  quick  eye  of  the  pilot 
rieejied  to  pierce  the  darkness  with  a  keenness  of  vision  that 
exceeded  human  power.  It  was  apparent  to  all  in  the  vessel, 
that  they  were  under  the  guidance  of  one  who  understood  the 
navigation  thoroughly,  and  their  exertions  kept  pace  with  their 
reviving  confidence.  Again  and  again  the  frigate  appeared  to 
be  rushing  blindly  on  shoals  where  the  sea  was  covered  with 
foam,  and  where  destruction  would  have  been  as  sudden  as  it 
was  certain,  when  the  clear  voice  of  the  stranger  was  heard 
warning  them  of  the  danger,  and  inciting  them  to  their  duty. 

9.  The  vessel  was  implicitly  yielded  to  his  government ;  and, 
during  those  anxious  moments,  when  she  was  dashing  the  waters 
aside,  throwing  the  spray  over  her  enormous  yards,  each  ear 
would  listen  eagerly  for  those  sounds  that  had  obtained  a  com- 
mand over  the  crew,  that  can  only  be  acquired,  under  such  cir- 
cumstances, by  great  steadiness  and  consummate  skill.  The 
ship  was  recovering  from  the  inaction  of  changing  her  course, 
in  one  of  those  critical  tacks  that  she  had  made  so  often,  when 
the  pilot,  for  the  first  time,  addressed  the  commander  of  the 
frigate,  who  still  continued  to  superintend  the  all-important  duty 
of  the  leadsman. 

10.  "  Now  is  the  pinch,"  he  said;  "  and,  if  the  ship  behaves 
well,  we  are  safe ;  but,  if  otherwise,  all  we  have  yet  done,  will 
be  useless."  The  veteran  seaman  whom  he  addressed  left  the 
chains  at  this  portentous  notice,  and,  calling  to  his  fiicit  lieutenant, 
required  of  the  stranger  an  explanation  of  his  warning. 

*'  See  you  yon  light  on  the  southern  headland '("  returned  thfl 
pilot;  "you  may  know  it  from  the  star  near  it — by  its  sinking, 
at  times,  in  the  ocean.  Now  observe  the  hommock,  a  little  north 
of  it,  looking  like  a  shadow  in  the  horizon — 'tis  a  hill  far  inland. 
If  we  keep  that  light  open  from  the  hill,  we  shall  do  well — but 
if  not,  we  surely  go  to  pieces." 


RHETORICAL    READER.  449 

11.  "  Let  us  tack  again  !"  exclaimed  the  lieutenant.  The 
pilot  shook  his  heaa,  as  he  replied — 

"  There  is  no  more  tacking  or  box-hauling  to  le  done  to-night. 
We  have  barely  room  to  pass  out  of  the  shoals  on  this  course ; 
and,  if  we  can  weather  the  '  Devil's  Grip/  we  clear  their  outer- 
most point;  but  if  not,  as  I  said  before,  there  is  but  an  alter- 
native." 

"  If  we  had  beaten  out  the  way  we  entered,"  exclaimed  Griffith, 
we  should  have  done  well.'' 

12.  "  Say,  alsc,  if  the  tide  would  have  let  us  do  so,"  returned 
the  pilot,  calmly.  "Gentlemen,  we  must  be  prompt;  we  have 
but  a  mile  to  go,  and  the  ship  appears  to  fly.  That  topsail  is 
not  enough  to  keep  her  up  to  the  wind ;  we  want,  both  jib  and 
mainsail." 

"  'Tis  a  perilous  thing  to  loosen  canvas  in  such  a  tempest  V* 
observed  the  doubtful  captain. 

**It  must  be  done,"  returned  the  collected  stranger;  "we 
perish  without  it — see !  the  light  already  touches  the  edge  of 
the  hommock ;  the  sea  casts  us  to  leeward  I" 

"  It  shall  be  done !"  cried  Griffith,  seizing  the  trumpet  from 
the  hands  of  the  pilot. 

13.  The  orders  of  the  lieutenant  were  executed  almost  as 
soon  as  issued ;  and,  everything  being  ready,  the  enormous  folds 
of  the  mainsail  were  trusted  loose  to  the  blast.  There  was  an 
instant  when  the  result  was  doubtful ;  the  tremendous  threshing 
of  the  heavy  sail  seemed  to  bid  defiance  to  all  restraint,  shaking 
the  ship  to  her  center;  but  art  and  strength  prevailed,  and 
gradually  the  canvas  was  distended,  and  bellying  as  it  filled, 
was  drawn  down  to  its  usual  place  by  the  power  of  a  hundred 
men.  The  vessel  yielded  to  this  immense  addition  of  force,  and 
bowed  before  it  like  a  reed  bending  to  a  breeze.  But  the  suc:jesa 
of  the  measure  was  announced  by  a  joyful  cry  from  the  stranger, 
thai  seemed  to  burst  from  his  inmost  soul. 

14.  "She  feels  it!  she  springs  her  luff!  observe,"  he  -aid^ 
*'  the  light  opens  from  the  hommock  already;  if  she  will  only 
bear  her  canvas,  we  shall  go  clear !" 

A  report   like  that  of  a  cannon,  interrupted  his  exclamation, 
2F 


tbO  MA\DER8'     UNION     SERIES. 

and  something  resembling  a  white  cloud  was  seen  drifting  before 
the  wind  f.om  the  head  of  the  ship,  till  it  was  driven  into  the 
gloom  far  to  leeward. 

"*Tis  the  jib  blown  from  the  bolt-ropes,"  said  the  commander 
of  the  frigate.  "  This  is  no  time  to  spread  light  duck — but  the 
mainsail  may  stand  it  yet." 

*'  The  sail  would  laugh  at  a  tornado,"  returned  the  lieutenant ; 
'  but  the  mast  springs  like  a  piece  of  steel." 

"  Silence  all !"  cried  the  pilot.  "  Now,  gentleman,  we  shall 
soon  know  our  fate.     Let  her  luff — luff  you  can  !" 

15.  This  warning  effectually  closed  all  discourse;  and  the 
hardy  mariners,  knowing  that  they  had  already  done  all  in  the 
power  of  man  to  insure  their  safety,  stood  in  breathless  anxiety, 
awaiting  the  result.  At  a  short  distance  ahead  of  them,  the 
whole  ocean  was  white  with  foam,  and  the  waves,  instead  of 
rolling  on  in  regular  succession,  appeared  to  be  tossing  about  in 
mad  gambols. 

16.  A  single  streak  of  dark  billow,  not  half  a  cable's  length 
in  width,  could  be  discerned  running  into  this  chaos  of  water; 
but  it  was  soon  lost  to  the  eye  amid  the  confusion  of  the  dis- 
turbed element.  Along  this  narrow  path  the  vessel  moved  more 
heavily  than  before,  being  brought  so  near  the  wind  as  to  keep 
her  sails  touching.  The  pilot  silently  proceeded  to  the  wheel, 
and,  with  his  own  hands,  he  undertook  the  steerage  of  the  ship. 
No  noise  proceeded  from  the  frigate  to  interrupt  the  horrid 
tumult  of  the  ocean ;  and  she  entered  the  channel  among  the 
breakers,  with  the  silence  of  a  desperate  calmness. 

17.  Twenty  times,  as  the  foam  rolled  away  to  leeward,  the 
crew  were  on  the  eve  of  uttering  their  joy,  as  they  supposed  the 
Vrts,sel  past  the  danger;  but  breaker  after  breaker  would  still 
heave  up  before  them,  following  each  other  into  the  general 
mass  to  check  their  exultation. 

Occasionally,  the  fluttering  of  the  sails  would  be  heard ;  and 
when  the  looks  of  the  startled  seamen  were  turned  to  the  wheel, 
fchey  beheld  the  stranger  grasping  at  the  spokes,  with  his  quick 
eye  glancing  from  the  water  to  the  canvas.  At  length,  the  ship 
f^ached  a  point  wh^re  she  appeared  to  be  rushing  directly  into 


RHETORICAL    READER.  451 


the  jaws  of  destruction,  when  suddenly  her  course  was  changed, 
and  her  head  receded  rapidly  from  the  wind.     At  the  same 
instant,  the  voice  of  the  pilot  was  heard  shouting — 
"  Square  away  the  yards  !  in  mainsail  V* 

18.  A  general  burst  from  the  crew  echoed,  "square  away  the 
yards  V  and,  quick  as  thought,  the  frigate  was  seen  gliding 
along  the  channel  before  the  wind.  The  eye  had  lardly  time 
tc  dwell  on  the  foam,  which  seemed  like  clouds  driving  in  the 
heavens,  and  directly  the  gallant  vessel  issued  from  her  perils, 
and  rose  and  fell  on  the  heavy  waves  of  the  sea. 

19.  The  seamen  were  yet  drawing  long  breaths,  and  gazing 
about  like  men  recovered  from  a  trance,  when  Griffith  approached 
the  man  who  had  so  successfully  conducted  them  through  their 
perils.  The  lieutenant  grasped  the  hand  of  the  other,  as  he 
said — 

"  You  have  this  night  proved  yourself  a  faithful  pilot,  and 
luch  a  seaman  as  the  world  can  not  equal  I" 


EXERCISE  CXXXII. 


VViLLiAM  CnLLEN  Bryant,  the  distinguished  American  poet,  was  born  in 
Hampshire  county,  Massachusetts,  November  3d,  1794.  Under  the  training 
of  a  father,  devoted  to  the  culture  and  development  of  his  children,  and 
capable,  both  by  education  and  natural  advantage,  of  giving  a  right  direction 
to  the  mind  of  such  a  son,  he  showed,  at  an  age  extraordinarily  early, 
remarkable  powers  of  thought  and  expression.  To  say  nothing  of  still 
earlier  efforts,  it  is  sufficient  to  remark  that  "  Thanatopsis,"  which  is  con- 
fessedly one  of  the  finest  poetical  compositions  in  the  English  language,  was 
written  in  his  nineteenth  year.  Mr.  Bryant  has  traveled!  much  both  in 
Europe  and  America,  is  a  close  and  thoughtful  observer,  and  a  writer  rich  in 
whatever  denites  a  fine,  fertile  imagination,  calm,  comprehensive  thought, 
and  masterly  skill  in  the  use  of  language.  In  1826  he  became  one  of  the 
editors  of  the  "New  York  Evening  Post,"  which  connection  he  has  main- 
tained ever  sin  je. 

Than  a  top''  sis,  the  title  of  the  following  piece,  is  a  Greek  compound 
(Thanat,  death,  and  Opsis,  a  view)  meaning  a  view  of  death. 


152  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES. 

THANATOPSIS. 

WILLIAM  CULLEN  BEYANT 
I. 

To  him  who  in  the  love  of  Nature  holds 
Communion  with  her  visible  forms,  she  speaks 
A  various  language ;  for  his  gayer  hours 
She  has  a  voice  of  gladness,  and  a  smile 
And  eloquence  of  beauty;  and  she  glides 
Into  his  darker  musings,  with  a  mild 
And  healing  sympathy,  that  steals  away 
Their  sharpness,  ere  he  is  aware. 

n. 

When  thoughts 
Of  the  last  bitter  hour  come  like  a  blight 
Over  thy  spirit,  and  sad  images 
Of  the  stern  agony,  and  shroud,  and  pall, 
And  breathless  darkness,  and  the  narrow  house, 
Make  thee  to  shudder,  and  grow  sick  at  heart ; — 
Go  forth,  under  the  open  sky,  and  list 
To  Nature's  teachings,  while  from  all  around — 
Earth  and  her  waters,  and  the  depths  of  air — 
Comee  a  still  voice  : — 

III. 

Yet  a  few  days,  and  thee 
The  all-beholding  sun  shall  see  no  more 
In  all  his  course ;  nor  yet  in  the  cold  ground, 
Where  thy  pale  form  is  laid  with  many  tears, 
Nor  in  the  embrace  of  ocean,  shall  exist 
Thy  image.     Earth  that  nourished  thee,  shall  claim 
Thy  growth,  to  be  resolved  to  earth  again, 
And,  lost  each  human  trace,  surrendering  up 
Thine  individual  being,  shalt  thou  go 
To  mix  forever  with  the  elements, — 
To  be  a  brother  to  the  insensible  rock. 
And  to  the  sluggish  clod,  which  the  rude  swain 


RHETORICAL    READER.  463 

Turns  with  his  share,  and  treads  upon.     The  oak 
Shall  send  his  roots  abroad,  and  pierce  thy  mold. 

IV. 

Yet  not  to  thine  eternal  resting-place 
Shalt  thou  retire  alone — nor  couldst  thou  wish 
Couch  more  magnificent.     Thou  shalt  lie  down 
With  patriarchs  of  the  infant  world — -Vith  kings, 
The  powerful  of  the  earth — the  wise,  the  good, 
Fair  forms,  and  hoary  seers,  of  ages  past. 
All  in  one  mighty  sepulcher.     The  hills 
Rock-ribbed,  and  ancient  as  the  sun, — the  vales 
Stretching  in  pensive  quietness  between ; 
The  venerable  woods — rivers  that  move 
In  majesty,  and  the  complaining  brooks 
That  make  the  meadows  green ;  and,  poured  round  all, 
Old  ocean's  gray  and  melancholy  waste, — 
Are  but  the  solemn  decorations  all 
Of  the  great  tomb  of  man. 

V. 

The  golden  sun, 
The  planets,  all  the  infinite  host  of  heaven. 
Are  shining  on  the  sad  abodes  of  death, 
Through  the  still  lapse  of  ages.     All  that  tread 
The  globe,  are  but  a  handful  to  the  tribes 
That  slumber  in  its  bosom.     Take  the  wings 
Of  morning,  and  the  Barcan  desert  pierce. 
Or  lose  thyself  in  the  continuous  woods 
Where  rolls  the  Oregon,  and  hears  no  sound 
Save  his  own  dashings — yet  the  dead  are  there ; 
And  millions  in  those  solitudes,  since  first 
The  flight  of  years  began,  have  laid  them  down 
In  their  last  sleep — the  dead  there  reign  alone. 

VI. 

So  shalt  thou  rest, — and  what  if  thou  withdraw 
Unheeded  by  the  living — and  no  friend 


454  SANDERS'     UNION     SERIES. 

Take  note  of  thy  departure?     All  that  breathe 
Will  share  thy  destiny.     The  gay  will  laugh 
When  thou  art  gone,  the  solemn  brood  of  care 
Plod  on,  and  each  one,  as  before,  will  chase 
His  favorite  phantom  j  yet  all  these  shall  leave 
Their  mirth  and  their  employments,  and  shall  come 
And  make  their  bed  with  thee. 

vn. 

As  the  long  tram 
Of  ages  glide  away,  the  sons  of  men, 
The  youth  in  life's  green  spring,  and  he  who  goes 
In  the  full  strength  of  years,  matron,  and  maid, 
And  the  sweet  babe,  and  the  gray-headed  man — 
Shall  one  by  one  be  gathered  to  thy  side. 
By  those  who,  in  their  turn,  shall  follow  them. 

VIII. 

So  live,  that,  when  thy  summons  comes  to  join 
The  innumerable  caravan,  that  moves 
To  that  mysterious  realm,  where  each  shall  take 
His  chamber  in  the  silent  halls  of  death, 
Thou  go  not,  like  the  quarry-slave,  at  night, 
Scourged  to  his  dungeon,  but,  sustained  and  soothed 
By  an  unfaltering  trust,  approach  thy  grave. 
Like  one  who  wraps  the  drapery  of  his  couch 
About  him,  and  lies  down  to  pleasant  dreams. 


EXERCISE  CXXXIII. 

JoHx  BuNYAN  was  bom  near  Bedford,  England,  in  the  year  1628  H* 
iied  August  12th,  1688.  His  father  being  a  tinker,  he  was  brought  tp  to 
the  same  business.  Hence  he  is  often  called  "the  poor  tinker  of  Bedford." 
Though  his  early  youth  gave  little  pledge  of  virtuous  maturity,  his  early 
manhood  displayed,  not  only  the  signs  of  genuine  piety,  but  the  tokens  of 
peculiar  power,  as  a  preacher.  The  Baptist  church  at  Bedford  made  him 
their  pastor ;  and  such  was  the  fame  of  his  preaching,  both  there  and  else- 
where, that  multitudes  went  to  hear  him.  This  offending  the  authorities,  he 
was  arrested,  tried,  convicted,  and  kept  in  prison  for  the  long  period  of  twelve 


RflETORICAL    READER. 


455 


years.  During  that  imprisonment,  he  composed,  among  other  things,  (for  he 
was  a  voluminous  writer,)  the  celebrated  allegory  entitled  "Pilgrim'?  Pro- 
gress," designed  to  illustrate  the  trials,  vicissitudes,  consolations,  and  ulti- 
mate triumph  of  the  Christian  life, — a  work  of  which  a  great  English  critic 
has  said  :  "  There  is  no  book  in  our  literature,  on  which  we  could  so  readily 
stake  the  fame  of  the  old  unpolluted  English  language, — no  book  which  shows 
so  well  how  rich  that  language  is,  in  its  own  proper  wealth,  and  how  little  it 
has  been  improved  by  all  that  it  has  borrowed."  After  his  liberation,  which 
tcok  place  in  1672,  Bunyan  still  continued  to  preach;  laboring  on  till  a  cold 
"iinght  while  on  his  way  to  meet  some  appointment  for  this  purpose,  brough' 
h  Ji  tc  the  close  of  his  mortal  career. 

CHRISTIAN  IN  DOUBTING  CASTLE. 

JOHN   BDNTAN. 

1.  Now  there  was,  not  far  from  the  place  where  they  lay,  a 
Cdstle,  called  Doubting  Castle,  the  owner  whereof  was  Giant 
Despair,  and  it  was  in  his  grounds  they  now  were  sleeping; 
wherefore  he,  getting  up  in  the  morning  early,  and  walking  up 
and  down  in  his  fields,  caught  Christian  and  Hopeful  asleep  in 
his  grounds.  Then,  with  a  grim  and  surly  voice,  he  bid  them 
awake,  and  asked  them  whence  they  were,  and  what  they  did 
in  his  grounds  ?  They  told  him  they  were  pilgrims,  and  that 
they  had  lost  their  way.  Then  said  the  giant, — "  You  have  this 
night  trespassed  on  me,  by  trampling  and  lying  on  my  ground ; 
therefore,  you  must  go  along  with  me."  So  they  were  forced  to 
go,  because  he  was  stronger  than  they.  They,  also,  had  but 
little  to  say,  for  they  knew  themselves  in  fault. 

2.  The  giant,  therefore,  drove  them  before  him,  and  put  them 
into  his  castle,  in  a  very  dark  dungeon,  nasty  and  stinking  to 
the  spirits  of  these  two  men.  Here  they  lay  from  Wednesday 
morning  till  Saturday  night,  without  one  bit  of  bread,  or  drop 
of  drink,  or  light,  or  any  to  ask  how  they  did  :  they  were,  there- 
fore, here  in  evil  case,  and  were  far  from  friends  and  acquaint- 
ance. Now,  in  this  place  Christian  had  double  sorrow ;  because 
it  was  through  his  unadvised  haste  that  they  were  brought  into 
(his  distress. 

3.  Now  Griant  Despair  had  a  wife,  and  her  name  was  Diffi- 
dence :  so  when  he  was  gone  to  bed,  he  told  his  wife  what  he 
had  done,  to  wit,  that  he  had  taken  a  couple  of  prisoners  and 
cast  them  into  his  dungeon,  for  trespassing  on  his  grounds 
Then  he  asked  her,  also,  what  he   had  best  to  do  further  to 


456  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES. 

them.  So  she  asked  him  what  they  were,  whence  they  came, 
and  whither  they  were  bound,  and  he  told  her.  Then  she 
counseled  him,  that  when  he  arose  in  the  morning,  he  should 
beat  them  without  mercy.  So  when  he  arose,  he  getteth  him  a 
grievous  crab-tree  cudgel,  and  goes  down  into  the  dungeon  to 
them,  and  there  first  falls  to  rating  them,  as  if  they  were  dogs, 
although  they  never  gave  him  a  word  of  distaste :  then  he 
"alls  upon  them,  and  beats  them  fearfully,  in  such  sort  that 
they  were  not  able  to  help  themselves,  or  turn  them  upon  the 
floor  This  done,  he  withdraws,  and  leaves  them  there  to  con- 
dole their  misery,  and  to  mourn  under  their  distress :  so  all  that 
day  they  spent  their  time  in  nothing  but  sighs  and  bitter 
lamentations. 

4,  The  next  night  she  talked  with  her  husband  about  them 
further,  and,  understanding  that  they  were  yet  alive,  did  advise 
him  to  counsel  them  to  make  away  with  themselves.  So  when 
morning  was  come,  he  goes  to  them  in  a  surly  manner,  as  before, 
and  perceiving  them  to  be  very  sore  with  the  stripes  that  he 
had  given  them  the  day  before,  he  told  them,  that  since  they 
were  never  like  to  come  out  of  that  place,  their  only  way  would 
be  forthwith  to  make  an  end  of  themselves,  either  with  knife, 
halter,  or  poison  :  "  For  why,"  said  he,  "  should  you  choose  life, 
seeing  it  is  attended  with  so  much  bitterness?"  But  they  de- 
sired him  to  let  them  go;  with  which  he  looked  ugly  upon 
them,  and,  rushing  to  them,  had  doubtless  made  an  end  of  them 
himself,  but  that  he  fell  into  one  of  his  fits,  (for  he  sometimes  in 
sunshiny  weather  fell  into  fits,)  and  lost  for  a  time  the  use  of 
his  hands :  wherefore  he  withdrew,  and  left  them,  as  before,  to 
consider  what  to  do.  Then  did  the  prisoners  consult  between 
themselves  whether  it  was  best  to  take  his  counsel  or  no ;  and 
thus  they  began  to  discourse : 

5.  Ghr.  "  Brother,"  said  Christian,  "what  shall  we  do?  The 
life  that  we  now  live,  is  miserable.  For  my  part,  I  know  not 
whether  it  is  best  to  live  thus,  or  die  out  of  hand.  *  My  soul 
chooseth  strangling  rather  than  life,'  and  the  grave  is  more 
easy  for  me  than  this  dungeon!  Shall  we  be  ruled  by  the 
giant  ?" 


RHETORICAL    READER.  457 

6.  Hope.  '^Indeed,  our  present  condition  is  dreadful,  and  death 
would  be  far  more  welcome  to  me,  than  thus  forever  to  abide ; 
but  let  us  consider,  the  Lord  of  the  country  to  which  we  are 
going,  hath  said :  Thou  shalt  do  no  murder :  no,  not  to  any 
man's  person ;  much  more  then  are  we  forbidden  to  take  his 
counsel  to  kill  ourselves.  Besides,  he  that  kills  another,  can  but 
commit  murder  upon  his  body;  but,  for  one  to  kill  himself, 
is  to  kill  body  and  soul  at  once.  And,  moreover,  my  brother, 
thou  talkest  of  ease  in  the  grave ;  but  hast  thou  forgotten  the 
hell,  whither  for  certain  the  murderers  go  ?  For  no  murderer 
hath  eternal  life,  &c.  And  let  us  consider,  again,  that  all  laws 
are  not  in  the  hand  of  Giant  Despair :  others,  so  far  as  I  can 
understand,  have  been  taken  by  him  as  well  as  we,  and  yet  have 
escaped  out  of  his  hands. 

7.  "Who  knows  but  that  Grod,  who  made  the  world,  may 
cause  that  Giant  Despair  may  die ;  or  that,  at  some  time  or 
other,  he  may  forget  to  lock  us  in ;  or  that  he  may,  in  a  short 
time,  have  another  of  his  fits  before  us,  and  may  lose  the  use  of 
his  limbs  ?  and,  if  ever  that  should  come  to  pass  again,  for  my 
part,  I  am  resolved  to  pluck  up  the  heart  of  man,  and  to  try  my 
utmost  to  get  from  under  his  hand.  I  was  a  fool  that  I  did  not 
try  to  do  it  before ;  but,  however,  my  brother,  let  us  be  patient, 
and  endure  a  while :  the  time  may  come  that  he  may  give  us  a 
happy  release ;  but  let  us  not  be  our  own  murderers."  With 
these  words  Hopeful,  at  present,  did  moderate  the  mind  of  his 
brother;  so  they  continued  together,  in  the  dark,  that  day  in 
their  sad  and  doleful  condition. 

8.  Well,  toward  the  evening,  the  giant  goes  down  into  the 
dungeon  again,  to  see  if  his  prisoners  had  taken  his  counsel; 
but  when  he  came  there  ho  found  them  alive ;  and  truly,  alive 
was  all;  for  now,  what  for  want  of  bread  and  water,  and  by 
reason  of  the  wounds  they  received  when  he  beat  them,  they 
could  do  little  but  breathe.  But,  I  say,  he  found  them  alive ; 
at  which  he  fell  into  a  grievous  rage,  and  told  them,  that  seeing 
they  had  disobeyed  his  counsel,  it  should  be  worse  with  them 
than  if  they  had  never  been  born. 

9.  At  this  they  trembled  greatly,  and  I  think  that  Christian 

20  6R 


468  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES. 

fell  into  a  sw«on ;  but,  coming  a  little  to  himself  again,  tley 
renewed  their  discourse  about  the  giant's  counsel,  and  whether 
they  had  best  take  it  or  no.  Now,  Christian  again  seemed  to 
be  for  doing  it ;  but  Hopeful  made  his  second  reply  as  followeth : 
IQ.  Hope.  "  My  brother,"  said  he,  "  rememberest  thou  not  how 
valiant  thou  hast  been  heretofore  ?  Apollyon  could  not  crush 
thee,  nor  could  all  that  thou  didst  hear,  or  see,  or  feel,  in  the 
Valley  of  the  Shadow  of  Death ;  what  hardships,  terror,  and 
amazement,  hast  thou  already  gone  through!  and  .art  thou  now 
nothing  but  fear?  Thou  seest  that  I  am  in  the  dungeon  with 
thee,  a  far  weaker  man  by  nature  than  thou  art;  also,  this  giant 
has  wounded  me  as  well  as  thee,  and  hath  also  cut  off  the 
bread  and  water  from  my  mouth,  and  with  thee  I  mourn  with- 
out the  light.  But  let  us  exercise  a  little  more  patience ;  re- 
member how  thou  playedst  the  man  at  Vanity  Fair,  and  wast 
neither  afraid  of  the  chain  nor  the  cage,  nor  yet  of  bloody 
death ;  wherefore  let  us,  (at  least,  to  avoid  the  shame  that  be- 
comes not  a  Christian  to  be  found  in,)  bear  up  with  patience  a£i 
well  as  we  can." 

11.  Now,  night  being  come  again,  and  the  giant  and  his  wife 
being  a-bed,  she  asked  concerning  the  prisoners,  and  if  they 
had  taken  his  counsel;  to  which  he  replied  :  "  They  are  sturdy 
rogues ;  they  choose  rather  to  bear  all  hardships  than  to  make 
away  with  themselves."  xnensaiashe:  "Take  them  into  the 
castle-yard  to-morrow,  and  show  them  the  bones  and  skulls  of 
those  thou  hast  already  dispatched,  and  make  them  believe,  ere 
a  week  comes  to  an  end,  thou  wilt,  also,  tear  them  in  pieces,  as 
thou  hast  done  their  fellows  before  them.'^ 

12.  So  when  the  morning  was  come,  the  giant  goes  to  them 
again,  and  takes  them  into  the  castle-yard,  and  shows  them  aa 
his  wife  had  bidden  him.  "  These,"  said  he,  "  were  pilgrims,  as 
you  are,  once ;  and  they  trespassed  on  my  grounds,  as  you  have 
done;  and,  when  I  thought  fit,  I  tore  them  in  pieces,  and  so, 
within  ten  days,  I  will  do  you :  go,  get  ye  down  to  your  deu 
again !"  and  with  that  he  beat  them  all  the  way  thither. 

13.  They  lay,  therefore,  all  day  on  Saturday  in  a  lamentable 
case,  as  before.     Now,  when  night  was  come,  and  when  Mrs 


RHETORICAL    READER.  459 

DiflSdence,  and  her  husband,  the  giant  were  got  to  bod,  they 
began  to  renew  their  discourse  of  their  prisoners ;  and,  withal, 
the  old  giant  wondered  that  he  could,  neither  by  his  blows  noi 
counsel,  bring  them  to  an  end.  And  with  that  his  wife  replied: 
"I  fear,"  said  she,  *'  that  they  live  in  hope  that  some  one  will 
come  to  relieve  them,  or  that  they  have  picklocks  about  them, 
by  the  means  of  which  they  h»pe  to  escape."  "  And  sayest  thou 
go,  my  dear?"  said  the  giant;  "I  will  therefore  search  them  in 
the  morning." 

14.  Well,  on  Saturday,  about  midnight,  they  began  to  pray, 
iind  continued  in  prayer  till  almost  break  of  day.  Now,  a  little 
before  it  was  day,  good  Christian,  as  one  half  amazed,  broke 
out  in  this  passionate  speech  :  "  What  a  fool,"  quoth  he,  "  am  I 
thus  to  lie  in  a  stinking  dungeon,  when  I  may  as  well  walk  at 
liberty  ?  I  have  a  key  in  my  bosom,  called  Promise,  that  will, 
I  am  persuaded,  open  any  lock  in  Doubting  Castle."  Then  said 
Hopeful :  "  That's  good  news,  good  brother;  pluck  it  out  of  thy 
bosom  and  try." 

15.  Then  Christian  pulled  it  out  of  his  bosom,  and  began  to 
try  at  the  dungeon-door,  whose  bolt,  as  he  turned  the  key,  gave 
back,  and  the  door  flew  open  with  ease,  and  Christian  and  Hope- 
ful both  came  out.  Then  he  went  to  the  outer  door  that  leads 
into  the  castle-yard,  and  with  his  key  opened  that  door  also. 
After,  he  went  to  the  iron  gate,  for  that  must  be  opened  too; 
but  that  lock  went  very  hard,  yet  the  key  did  open  it.  Then 
they  thrust  open  the  door  to  make  their  escape  with  speed ;  but 
that  gate,  as  it  opened,  made  such  a  creaking,  that  it  waked 
Giant  Despair,  who,  hastily  rising  to  pursue  his  prisoners,  felt 
his  limbs  fail ;  for  his  fits  took  him  again,  so  that  he  could,  by 
no  means,  go  after  them.  Then  they  went  on,  and  came  to  th? 
king's  highway,  and  so  were  safe ;  because  they  were  out  of  his 
jurisdiction. 

16.  Now,  when  they  were  gone  over  the  stile,  they  began  tc 
contrive  with  themselves  what  they  should  do  at  that  stile  to 
prevent  those  that  should  come  after  from  falling  into  the  hands 
of  Giant  Despair.  So  they  consented  to  erect  th(ire  a  pillar 
and  to  engrave  upon  the  stile  thereof  this  .-sentence  :  "  Over  this 


4G0  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES 

5tile  is  the  way  to  Doubting  Castle,  whicli  is  kept  by  Giant 
Despair,  who  despiseth  the  King  of  the  Celestial  Country,  and 
seeks  to  destroy  his  holy  pilgrims."  Many,  therefore,  that  fol- 
lowed after,  read  what  was  written,  and  escaped  the  danger. 


EXERCISE  CXXXIV. 

The  eelebrated  Soliloquy  which  forms  the  present  Exercise,  is  from 
Addison's  "  Cato  ;"  a  tragedy  which,  though  constructed  according  tc 
the  strictest  rules  of  classical  propriety,  and,  in  the  author's  own  time, 
very  popular,  has  failed  to  maintain  its  place  in  the  dramatic  world, 
because  of  its  strange  deficiency  in  the  representation  of  manners  and 
character,  and  its  marked  improbabilities  of  time,  place,  and  action 

Marcus  Porcius  Cato,  the  hero  of  Addison's  famous  tragedy,  •vt-as  born 
about  the  year  95  before  Christ.  He  is  often  called  "  Cato  the  Younger,"  to 
distinguish  him  from  his  great-grandfather,  so  celebrated  in  Roman  history 
for  inflexible  virtue,  and  so  well  known  under  the  title  "Cato  the  Censor}'* 
being  so  called  in  allusion  to  his  severity  in  the  discharge  of  the  duties  of  bia 
oflBce,  as  Censor.  The  Cato,  here  meant,  received,  also,  the  Latin  designation 
Uticensis  (pertaining  to  Utica),  from  his  tragical  fate  at  Utica.  In  the  terrible 
civil  contest  that  divided  the  state,  in  his  day,  he  took  part  with  Pompey 
against  Caesar:  these  being  the  two  great  military  spirits  then  struggling  for 
the  mastery.  Pompey,  however,  being  defeated  in  Europe,  and  the  hopes  of 
the  party  utterly  extinguished  by  a  decisive  battle  in  Africa,  whither  Cato 
had  gone  with  the  troops  under  his  command,  he  still  sought  to  suite  the 
fragments  of  the  defeated  army  in  an  effort  to  hold  the  town  of  Utica  against 
the  grasp  of  the  conqueror.  This  proving  vain,  he  retired,  in  the  evening,  to 
his  own  apartments,  and  employed  himself  in  reading  the  Phaedon  of  Plato,* 
a  dialogue  on  the  immortality  of  the  soul :  having  secretly  resolved  to  commit 
suicide,  which  he  did,  by  stabbing  himself,  towards  the  approach  of  morning. 
It  ought  to  be  added  that  "  Cato  Lho  Younger"  falls  little  behind  his  great 
ancestor  in  all  those  virtues  for  which  the  latter  was  so  justly  admired. 

CATO'S  SOLILOQUY. 

ADMSON.t 

Scene. —  Cato  seated^  with  Plato's  treatise  in  his  hand,  and  hit 
sword  beside  him. 

I. 
it  must  be  so — Plato,  thou  reasonest  well ! 
Else  whence  this  pleasing  hope,  this  fond  desire, 

*  See  Note  on  Plato,  p.  98. 

f  For  a  sketch  of  Addison,  see  Exercise  CXXIII. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  4:01 

TLis  longing  after  immortality? 

Or  whence  this  secret  dread,  and  inward  horror 

Of  falling  into  naught?     Why  shrinks  the  soul 

Back  on  herself,  and  startles  at  destruction? — 

'Tis  the  Divinity  that  stirs  within  us; 

'Tis  Heaven  itself  that  points  out  a  hereafter^ 

And  intimates  Eternity  to  man. 

II. 

Eternity  ! — thou  pleasing,  dreadful  thought ! 
Through  what  variety  of  untried  being, 
Through  what  new  scenes  and  changes  must  we  pass  ? 
The  wide,  the  unbounded  prospect  lies  before  me  j 
But  shadows,  clouds,  and  darkness,  rest  upon  it. 

III. 
Here  will  I  hold.     If  there's  a  Power  above  us 
(And  that  there  is,  all  Nature  cries  aloud 
Through  all  her  works),  He  must  delight  in  virtue : 
And  that  which  He  delights  in,  must  be  happy. 
But  when  ?  or  where  ?     This  world  was  made  for  Caesar  ! 
Vm.  weary  of  conjectures.      This  must  end  them. 

[Laying  his  hand  on  his  sword. 

IV. 

Thus  am  I  doubly  armed.     My  death  and  life, 
My  bane  and  antidote,  are  both  before  me. 
This  *  in  a  moment  brings  me  to  an  end ; 
But  thislc  informs  me  I  shall  never  die. 
The  soul,  secure  in  her  existence,  smiles 
At  the  drawn  dagger,  and  defies  its  point. 
The  stars  shall  fade  away,  the  Sun  himself 
Grow  dim  with  age,  and  Nature  sink  in  years  j 
But  thou  shalt  flourish  in  immortal  youth. 
Unhurt  amid  the  war  of  elements, 
The  wreck  of  matter,  and  the  crush  of  worlds! 

*  The  sword  f  The  book. 


462  SANDERS'     UNION    SERIES. 


EXERCISE  CXXXV. 

Robert  Burns,  the  celebrated  Scottish  poet,  was  born  in  January,  1769; 
and  died  in  July,  1796.  The  son  of  very  poor,  but  very  judicious  parents,  he 
had  every  encouragement  to  learning,  except  pecuniary  means.  This  being 
denied,  he  employed  the  intervals  of  labor  on  the  farm,  in  the  effort  to  master 
the  English  and  acquire  knowledge  by  reading.  In  this  he  was  eminently 
successful ;  for  his  early  compositions  display  such  skill  in  the  use  of  lan- 
guage, to  say  nothing  of  their  other  merits,  as  seldom  attends  the  moat 
favored  culture.  But  the  struggle  with  poverty  still  continued  to  embarrass 
bis  course,  and  often  to  bring  him  into  associations  unfriendly  to  regular 
habits.  Hampered  in  this  way,  he  was,  in  the  year  1786,  just  about  tc 
attempt  an  escape  from  the  difficulties  of  his  situation,  by  making  a  voyage 
to  the  West  Indies.  At  this  juncture,  he  received  a  letter  from  a  friend  in 
Edinburgh,  earnestly  inviting  him  to  come  to  that  city  and  issue  a  second 
edition  of  his  poems  ;  they  having  now  come  to  be  regarded  with  especial 
favor.  He  went;  and  soon  became  the  object  of  almost  unqualified  admira- 
tion. Besides,  he  received  a  large  pecuniary  return.  In  1788  he  got  married : 
at  the  same  time  securing,  througn  friends,  some  small  political  office.  But 
the  vexations  of  want  still  pursued  him ;  which,  added  to  the  inroads  of 
irregular  life,  soon  closed  his  comparatively  short  career.  Whatever  his 
frailties,  however,  the  world  does  not  often  look  upon  his  like,  whether  you 
regard  his  spirit,  as  a  man,  or  his  wonderful  power,  as  a  poet. 

PASSAGES  FROM  BURNS. 


THE  WISH  FOR  MANHOOD. 

Oh,  enviable  early  days, 

When  dancing  thoughtless  pleasure's  maze, 

To  care,  to  guilt  unknown  ! 
How  ill  exchanged  for  riper  times. 
To  feel  the  follies,  or  the  crimes 

Of  others,  or  my  own  ! 
Ye  tiny  elves  that  guiltless  sport, 

Like  linnets  in  the  bush, 
Ye  little  know  the  ills  ye  court. 

When  manhood  is  your  wish 

II. 

PLEASURES  EVANESCENT. 

But  pleasures  are  like  poppies  spread, — 
You  seize  the  flower — its  bloom  is  dead  • 


RHETORICAL    READER.  163 

Or  like  the  snow-falls  in  the  river, — 
A  moment  white — then  lost  for  everj 
Or  like  the  borealis*  race, 
That  flit  ere  you  can  find  their  place ; 
Or  Uke  the  rainbow's  lovely  form, 
Evanishing  amid  the  storm. 

III. 

MONEY  NOT  TO  MINISTER  TO  PRIDE  OR  AVARICE 

To  catch  dame  Fortune's  golden  smile, 

Assiduous  wait  upon  her ; 
And  gather  gear  by  ev'ry  wile 

That's  justified  by  honor ; 
Not  for  to  hide  it  in  a  hedge, 

Not  for  a  train-attendant  ^ 
But  for  the  glorious  privilege 

Of  being  independent! 

IV. 
A  NOBLE  ANCHOR  IN  THE  TEMPEST  OP  LIF*. 

When  ranting  round  in  pleasure's  ring, 

Keligion  may  be  blinded ; 
Or  if  she  gief  a  random  sting^ 

It  may  be  little  minded ; 
But,  when  on  life  we're  tempest  driven, 

A  conscience  but  a  canker — 
A  correspondence  fixed  wi'  He^aven^ 

Is  sure  a  noble  anchor  1 

V. 
THE  RICH  AND  GREAT  NOT  ALL  TRULY  BLEST 

A  few  seem  favorites  of  fate 

In  pleasures  lap  caressed ; 
Yet,  think  not  all  the  rich  and  great 

Are  likewise  truly  blest : 

*  That  is,  ihQ  fleeting  luminous  appearances  which  pass  under  the 
aame  Auro^ra  Borea^liu. 
t  Gie,  that  is,  give. 


464  SANDERS'     UNION     SERIES. 

But,  oh  !  what  crowds,  in  every  land, 

Are  wretched  and  forlorn  j 
Through  weary  life  this  lesson  learn 

That  man  was  made  to  mourn. 

VI. 
THE  ILLS  WE  MAKE  FOR  OURSELVES  AND  FOR  OTHERII. 

Many  and  sharp  the  numerous  ills 

Interwoven  with  our  frame  ! 
More  pointed  still,  we  make  ourselves 

Regret,  remorse,  and  shame ! 
And  man,  whose  heaven-erected  face 

The  smiles  of  love  adorn, 
Man's  inhumanity  to  man 

Makes  countless  thousands  mourn  I 

vn. 

JUDGE  NOT  THY  BROTHER. 

Who  made  the  heart,  'tis  He  alone 

Decidedly  can  try  us ; 
He  knows  each  chord — its  various  tone,— 

Each  spring,  its  various  bias : 
Then  at  the  balance  let's  be  mute, 

We  never  can  adjust  it; 
What's  done  we  partly  may  compute, 

But  know  not  what's  resisted! 

VIII. 
GRACE  BEFORE  DINNER. 

O  thou  who  kindly  dost  provide 

For  every  creature's  want  i 
We  bless  Thee,  God  of  nature  wide, 

For  all  Thy  goodness  lent : 
And,  if  it  please  Thee,  Heavenly  Gruida, 

May  never  worse  be  sent ; 
But,  whether  granted  or  denied, 

Lord,  bless  us  with  content  1 


RHETORICAL    READER.  465 


EXERCISE  CXXXVI. 

Edward  Young  was  born  at  Upham,  in  Hampshire,  Englana,  in  the  yeai 
1681.  He  died  in  the  year  1765.  The  greater  part  of  his  life  was  spent  in 
the  search  after  literary  and  political  eminence.  In  this  he  met  no  distin- 
guished success.  At  the  age  of  fifty  he  took  orders  in  the  church,  and 
thenceforth  passed  his  time  in  comparative  retirement.  His  last  literary 
work,  and  that  on  which  rests  his  celebrity,  as  an  author,  was  the  "  Night 
Thoughts,"  which  appeared  in  1742.  This  poem,  though  it  bears  occasional 
marks  of  poor  taste  and  poorer  judgment,  showing  the  author's  too  great 
fondness  for  ingenious  conceits,  epigrammatic  turns,  and  affected  gloom,  is, 
nevertheless,  an  admirable  monument  of  poetic  genius.  "  It  is  impossible," 
says  a  good  judge,  "  to  open  any  page  of  Young  without  finding  something 
grand,  true,  and  striking:  he  is  full  of 'thoughts  that  wander  through  eternity!" 

PIETY  AND  VIRTUE  DISTINGUISHED. 

rovNO. 

I. 

" Is  virtue,  then,  and  piety  the  same?" 

No ;  piety  is  more ;  'tis  virtue's  source ; 

Mother  of  every  worth,  as  that  of  joy. 

Men  of  the  world  this  doctrine  ill-digest : 

They  smile  at  piety ;  yet  boast  aloud 

Good-will  to  men ;  nor  know  they  strive  to  part 

What  nature  joins ;  and  thus  confute  themselves. 


With  piety  begins  all  good  on  earth ; 

'Tis  the  first-born  of  rationality. 

Conscience,  her  first  law  broken,  wounded  lies; 

Enfeebled,  lifeless,  impotent  to  good ; 

A  feigned  afiection  bound  her  utmost  power. 

Some  we  can't  love,  but  for  the  Almighty's  sake 

A  foe  to  God  was  ne'er  true  friend  to  man  j 

Some  sinister  intent  taints  all  he  does ; 

And,  in  his  kindest  actions,  he's  unkind. 

ITT. 

On  piety,  humanity  is  built; 
And,  on  humanity,  much  happiness; 
And  yet  still  more  on  piety  itself. 
20*  R 


166  SANDERS'     UNION    SERIES. 

A  soul  in  commerce  with  her  God,  is  Heaven ; 
Feels  not  the  tumults  and  the  shocks  of  life, 
The  whirls  of  passion,  and  the  strokes  of  heart. 
A  Deity  believed,  is  joy  begun ; 
A  Deity  adored,  is  joy  advanced; 
A  Deity  beloved,  is  joy  matured. 

IV. 
Each  branch  of  piety  delight  inspires , 
Faith  builds  a  bridge  from  this  world  to  the  next 
O'er  death's  dark  gulf,  and  all  its  horror  hides; 
Praise,  the  sweet  exhalation  of  our  joy, 
That  joy  exalts,  and  makes  it  sweeter  still ; 
Prayer  ardent  opens  Heaven,  lets  down  a  stream 
Of  glory  on  the  consecrated  hour 
Of  man,  in  audience  with  the  Deity. 
Who  worships  the  great  God,  that  instant  joins 
The  first  in  Heaven,  and  sets  his  foot  on  Hell. 


EXERCISE  CXXXVII. 

John  Milton  wao  born  in  London,  December  9th,  1608,  and  died,  in  tne 
Bame  place,  November  8th,  1674.  His  early  education  was  careful  and  com- 
plete. In  1638  he  went  to  Italy ;  having  previously  composed  some  of  his 
most  celebrated  pieces.  In  Italy  his  associations  were  of  the  choicest  kind. 
On  his  return  to  London  he  opened  a  school.  Meantime,  acting  upon  the 
feelings  and  principles  which  he  had  early  imbibed  from  his  father,  and 
which  were  now  matured  and  strengthened  by  travel  and  study,  he  entered 
heartily  into  the  religious  disputes  of  the  times.  In  1643  he  was  married: 
the  match  proving  in  the  end  extremely  unfortunate.  In  1649  he  became 
Foreign  Secretary  to  Oliver  Cromwell ;  which  situation  he  kept  till  the  time 
[1658]  of  Cromwell's  death.  In  1652  his  sight,  which  had  long  been  failing, 
fave  way  entirely  :  leaving  him  stone-blind,  just  after  the  completion  of  one 
of  his  political  productions.  The  Restoration  of  the  monarchy  doomed  Milton 
to  concealment  till  the  act  of  oblivion  again  brought  him  forth.  But  neithei 
Blindness  nor  persecution  could  crush  the  creative  spirit  that  dwelt  in  him, 
ind  so  we  have  to  record  that,  among  other  wonders  achieved  by  this  incom- 
jarable  genius,  his  "  Paraoise  Lost"  is  the  product  of  this  period  of  physical 
Jarkness.  It  first  appeared  in  1671,  and  was  followed  by  the  "Paradisb 
Regained"  and  some  other  productions  of  his  prolific  pen. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  46V 

Dante  (full  form  Durante),  the  most  distinguished  of  Italian  poets,  was 
born  in  Florence,  in  the  year  1265,  and  died  there,  September  14th,  1321. 
His  personal  history,  so  far  as  known,  is  but  a  series  of  bitter  griefs  and 
wrongs,  both  private  and  public,  and  these  have  given  a  certain  tinge  to  all 
his  writings.  His  great  poem  is  entitled  " Divina  Commedia"  {Divine  Comedy), 
of  which  there  have  been  many  editions  and  numerous  commentators.  It  is 
divided  into  three  parts, — Hell,  Purgatory,  and  Paradise.  Why  it  should  be 
called  a  comedy,  has  often  exercised  the  critics ;  though  he  himself  so  called, 
ii,  it  appeari,  "  because  it  has  a  fortunate  ending." 

DANTE  AND  MILTON  COMPARED. 

MACADLAl  ♦ 

1  The  character  of  Milton  was  peculiarly  distinguished  \y 
loftiness  of  thought ;  that  of  Dante  by  intensity  of  feeling.  In 
every  line  of  the  Divine  Comedy,  we  discern  the  asperity  which 
is  produced  by  pride  struggling  with  misery.  There  is,  perhaps, 
no  work  in  the  world  so  deeply  and  uniformly  sorrowful. 

2.  The  melancholy  of  Dante  was  no  fantastic  caprice.  It  was 
not,  as  far  as  at  this  distance  of  time  can  be  judged,  the  effect 
of  external  circumstances.  It  was  from  within.  Neither  love 
nor  glory,  neither  the  conflicts  of  the  earth  nor  the  hope  of 
Heaven,  could  dispel  it.  It  twined  every  consolation  and  every 
pleasure  into  its  own  nature.  It  resembled  that  noxious  Sardinian 
soil  of  which  the  intense  bitterness  is  said  to  have  been  percepti- 
ble even  in  its  honey:  His  mind  was,  in  the  noble  language  of 
the  Hebrew  poet,  "  a  land  of  darkness,  as  darkness  itself,  and 
where  the  light  was  as  darkness !" 

3.  The  gloom  of  his  character  discolors  all  the  passions  of  men, 
and  all  the  face  of  nature,  and  tinges  with  its  own  livid  hue  the 
flowers  of  Paradise  and  the  glories  of  the  Eternal  Throne.  All 
the  portraits  of  him  are  singularly  characteristic.  No  person  can 
look  on  the  features,  noble  even  to  ruggedness,  the  dark  furrows 
of  the  cneek,  the  haggard  and  woeful  stare  of  the  eye,  the  sullen 
and  contemptuous  curve  of  the  lip,  and  doubt  that  they  belonged 
to  a  mac  too  proud  and  too  sensitive  to  be  happy. 

4.  Milton  was,  like  Dante,  a  statesman  and  a  lover ;  and,  like 
Dante,  he  had  been  unfortunate  in  ambition  and  in  love.  He 
had  survived  his  health  and  his  sight,  the  comforts  of  his  home 


*  For  a  Note  on  Macaulay,  see  Exercise  CI. 


468  SAHDURS'    UNION     oERIES. 

and  the  prosperity  of  his  party.  Of  the  great  men  by  whom  he 
had  been  distinguished  on  his  entrance  into  life,  some  had  been 
taken  away  from  the  evil  to  come  j  some  had  carried  into  foreign 
climates  their  unconquerable  hatred  of  oppression;  some  were 
pining  in  dungeons ;  and  some  had  poured  forth  their  blood  on 
scaflPolds. 

5.  That  hateful  proscription — facetiously  termed  the  act  of 
indemnity  and  oblivion — had  set  a  mark  on  the  poor,  blind, 
deserted  poet,  and  held  him  up  by  name  to  the  hatred  of  a 
profligate  court  and  an  inconstant  people.  Venal  and  licentious 
scribblers,  with  just  sufficient  talent  to  clothe  the  thoughts  of  a 
pander  in  the  style  of  a  bellman,  were  now  the  favorite  writers 
of  the  sovereign  and  the  public. 

6.  It  was  a  loathsome  herd — which  could  be  compared  to 
nothing,  so  fitly,  as  to  the  rabble  of  Comus* — grotesque  monsters, 
half  bestial,  half  human, — dropping  with  wine,  bloated  with 
gluttony,  and  reeling  in  obscene  dances.  Amidst  these  hia 
Muse  was  placed,  like  the  chaste  lady  of  the  Masque,  lofty, 
spotless,  and  serene — to  be  chatted  at,  and  pointed  at,  and 
grinned  at,  by  the  whole  tribe  of  Satyrs  "j"  and  Goblins. 

7.  If  ever  despondency  could  be  excused  in  any  man,  it  might 
have  been  excused  in  Milton.  But  the  strength  of  his  mind 
overcame  every  calamity.  Neither  blindness,  nor  gout,  nor 
penury,  nor  age,  nor  domestic  afflictions,  nor  political  disappoint- 
ments, nor  abuse,  nor  proscription,  nor  neglect,  had  power  to 
disturb  his  sedate  and  majestic  patience.  His  spirits  do  not 
seem  to  have  been  high,  but  they  were  singularly  equable.  His 
temper  was  serious,  perhaps,  stern  j  but  it  was  a  temper  which 
no  sufferings  could  render  sullen  or  fretful. 

8.  Such  as  it  was,  when  on  the  eve  of  great  events  he  returned 
from  his  travels,  in  the  prime  of  health  and  manly  beauty,  loaded 
with  lit^j-ary  distinctions  and  glowing  with  patriotic  hopes,  such 
it  continusd  to  be  —  when,  after  having  experienced  every 
calamity  which  is  incident  to  our  nature,  old,  poor,  sightless,  and 
disgraced,  he  retired  to  his  hovel  to  die ! 

*  Comus  is  the  name  of  an  exquisite  dramatic  piece  by  Milton. 
t  See  Note  on  Exercise  CXLI 


RHETORICAL    READER. 

EXERCISE  CXXXVIII. 
SATAN'S  ADDRESS  TO  THE  SUN. 

I. 

O  tliou,  that,  with  surpassing  glory  crowned, 
Look'st  from  thy  sole  dominion  like  the  God 
Of  this  new  world ;  at  whose  sight  all  the  stars 
Hide  their  diminished  heads;  to  thee  I  call, 
But  with  no  friendly  voice;  and  add  thy  name, 

0  Sun,  to  tell  thee  how  I  hate  thy  beams, 
That  bring  to  my  remembrance  from  what  state 

1  fell,  how  glorious  once — above  thy  sphere ; 
Till  pride  and  worse  ambition  threw  me  down. 
Warring  in  Heaven  against  Heaven's  matchless  King. 

II. 

Ah,  wherefore  ?     He  deserved  no  such  return 
From  me,  whom  he  created  what  I  was 
In  that  bright  eminence,  and  with  his  good 
Upbraided  none,  nor  was  his  service  hard. 
What  could  be  less  than  to  afford  him  praise. 
The  easiest  recompense,  and  pay  him  thanks  ? 
How  due  ! — yet  all  his  good  proved  ill  in  me, 
And  wrought  but  malice ;  lifted  up  so  high, 
I  'sdained  subjection,  and  thought  one  step  higher 
Weald  set  me  highest,  and  in  a  moment  quit 
The  debt  immense  of  endless  gratitude. 
So  burdensome  still  paying,  still  to  owe : 
Forgetful  what  from  him  I  still  received ; 
And  understood  not  that  a  grateful  mind 
By  owing,  owes  not,  but  still  pays,  at  once 
Indebted  and  discharged  :  what  burden  then  ? 

III. 
0,  had  his  powerful  destiny  ordained 
Me  some  inferior  angel,  I  had  stood 

*  See  Exercise  preceding. 


469 


170  SANDERS'     UNION     SERIES. 

Then  happy ;  no  unbounded  hope  had  raised 

Ambition  !     Yet  why  not  ? — some  other  power 

As  great  might  have  aspired,  and  me,  though  mean, 

Drawn  to  his  part;  but  other  powers  as  great 

Fell  not,  but  stand  unshaken,  from  within, 

Or  from  <vithout,  to  all  temptations  armed. 

Hadst  thou  the  same  free  will  and  power  to  stand  ? 

Thou  hadst :  whom  hast  thou,  then,  or  what  to  accuse, 

But  Heaven's  free  love  dealt  equally  to  all  ? 

Be,  then,  his  love  accursed;  since  love  or  hate, 

To  me  alike,  it  deals  eternal  woe.: 

Nay,  cursed  be  thou ;  since,  against  his,  thy  will 

Chose  freely  what  it  now  so  justly  rues. 

IV. 

Me  miserable  ! — which  way  shall  I  fly  ? 
Infinite  wrath  and  infinite  despair! 
Which  way  I  fly,  is  hell ;  myself  am  hell ; 
And,  in  the  lowest  deep,  a  lower  deep 
Still  threatening  to  devour  me,  opens  wide ; 
To  which  the  hell  I  suff'er,  seems  a  Heaven. 
O,  then,  at  last,  relent;  is  there  no  place 
Left  for  repentance,  none  for  pardon  left? 
None  left  but  by  submission ;  and  that  word 
Disdain  forbids  me,  and  my  dread  of  shame 
Among  the  spirits  beneath,  whom  I  seduced 
With  other  promises  and  other  vaunts 
Than  to  submit,  boasting  I  could  subdue 
The  Omnipotent ! 

V. 
Ay,  me  !  they  little  know 
How  dearly  I  abide  that  boast  so  vain ; 
Under  what  torments  inwardly  I  groan. 
While  they  adore  me  on  the  throne  of  hell. 
With  diadem  and  scepter  high  advanced, 
The  lower  still  I  fall ;  only  supreme 
In  misery  :  such  joy  ambition  finds  I 


RHETORICAL    READER  471 


EXERCISE  CXXXIX. 

Felicia  Djuothea  Hemans  was  born  in  Liverpool,  September  25 lb,  1794, 
and  died  near  Dublin,  May  12th,  1835.  Her  early  productions, — for  she 
wrote  at  a  very  early  age, — were  not  well  received.  Her  maiden  name  was 
Browne.  In  1812  she  was  married  to  Captain  Hemans,  of  the  army.  The 
match  proving  unhappy,  and  the  captain's  health  infirm,  he  went,  in  1818,  to 
iOside  in  Italy,  and  she,  with  her  five  sons,  to  live  with  her  mother,  in  Wales. 
The  separation  was  understood  to  be  permanent,  and  proved  so.  From  tha! 
time  Mrs.  Hemans  gave  herself  diligently  to  authorship  :  studying,  in  furthei 
♦nee  of  her  literary  aims,  the  German  and  some  other  foreign  languages,  and 
constantly  contributing  to  various  periodicals.  "  If  taste  and  elegance,"  saya 
a  most  accomplished  critic,  "  be  titles  to  enduring  fame,  we  might  venture 
securely  to  promise  that  rich  boon  to  the  author  before  us  [Mrs.  Hemans]  j 
for  we  do  not  hesitate  to  say,  that  she  is,  beyond  all  comparison,  the  most 
touching  and  accomplished  writer  of  occasional  verses,  that  our  literature  haa 
yet  to  boast  of." 

SCENE  OF  THE  FRENCH  REVOLUTION. 

FELICIA  HEHAirS. 

A  Prison  in  the  Palace  of  the  Luxembourg.'*^ 

D'AuBIGNE,  an  aged  royalist,  and  BLANCHE,  his  daughter. 

Blanche.  What  was  our  doom,  my  father?     In  thine  arms 
I  lay  unconsciously  through  that  dread  hour. 
Tell  me  the  sentence.     Gould  our  judges  look, 
Without  relenting,  on  thy  silvery  hair  ? 
Was  there  not  mercy,  father  ?     Will  they  not 
Restore  us  to  our  home  ? 

D'Aubigne.  Yes,  my  poor  child! 
They  send  us  home  I 

Blanche.  Oh  !  shall  we  gaze  again 
On  the  bright  Loire  ?     Will  the  old  hamlet  spire, 
And  the  gray  turret  of  our  own  chateau,f 
Look  forth  to  greet  us  through  the  duskj  elms  ? 
Will  the  kind  voices  of  our  villagers. 
The  loving  laughter  in  their  children's  eyes, 

*  The  Luxembourg  is  one  of  those  magnificent  palaces  for  which 
Paris  is  celebrated  above  every  other  capital  in  Europe.  It  was  com- 
pleted in  1620.  During  the  terrible  times  of  the  French  Revolution,  it 
was  converted  into  a  prison. 

♦  Chateau  (shal  to^)  a  castle. 


472  SANDERS'     UNION    SERIES. 

Welcome  us  back  at  last  ?  But  how  is  this  ? 
Father !  thy  glance  is  clouded ;  on  thy  brow 
There  sits  no  joy  ! 

D' Auhigne.  Upon  my  brow,  dear  girl, 
There  sits,  I  trust,  such  deep  and  solemn  peace 
A.S  may  befit  the  Christian  who  receives 
And  recognizes,  in  submissive  awe, 
The  summons  of  his  God. 

Blanche.  Thou  dost  not  mean, — 
No,  no  !  it  can  not  be  !     Didst  thou  not  say, 
They  send  us  home  f 

D'Auhigne.  Where  is  the  spirit's  home? 
Oh !  most  of  all,  in  these  dark,  evil  days, 
Where  should  it  be,  but  in  that  world  serene, 
Beyond  the  sword's  reach,  and  the  tempest's  power  T 
Where,  but  in  Heaven  ? 

Blanclie,     My  Father  ! 

D^Auhiyne.    We  must  die ! 
We  must  look  up  to  God,  and  calmly  die. 
Come  to  my  heart,  and  weep  there !     For  awhile 
Give  Nature's  passion  way,  then  brightly  rise 
In  the  still  courage  of  a  woman's  heart. 
Do  I  not  know  thee  ?     Do  I  ask  too  much 
From  mine  own  noble  Blanche  ? 

Blanche.  Oh  !  clasp  me  fast ! 
Thy  trembling  child  !     Hide,  hide  me  in  thine  arms ' 
Father ! 

D'Auhigne.  Alas !  my  flower,  thou'rt  young  to  go  j 
Young,  and  so  fair !     Yet  were  it  worse,  raethinks, 
To  leave  thee  where  the  gentle  and  the  brave. 
And  they  that  loved  their  God,  have  all  been  swept, 
Like  the  seai  leaves  away.     The  soil  is  steeped 
In  noble  blood,  the  temples  are  gone  down ; 
The  voice  of  prayer  is  hushed,  or  fearfully 
Muttered,  like  sounds  of  guilt.     Why,  who  would  live? 
Who  hath  not  panted,  as  a  dove,  to  flee, 
To  quit  forever  the  dishonored  soil, 


RHETORICAL    READER.  478 

The  burdened  air?     Our  God  upon  the  cross, 
Our  king  upon  the  scaffold ;  let  us  think 
Of  these,  and  fold  endurance  to  our  hearts, 
And  bravely  die ! 

Blanche.  A  dark  and  fearful  way ! 
An  evil  doom  for  thy  dear,  honored  head ! 
Oh  !  thou,  the  kind,  and  gracious  !  whom  all  eyes 
Blessed,  as  they  looked  upon  !     Speak  yet  again  ! 
Say,  will  they  part  us  ? 

D'Auhigne.  No,  my  Blanche;  in  death 
We  shall  not  be  divided. 

Blanche.  Thanks  to  God  ! 
He,  by  thy  glance,  will  aid  me.     I  shall  see 
His  light  before  me  to  the  last.     And  when, — 
Oh !  pardon  these  weak  shrinkings  of  thy  child ! 
When  shall  the  hour  befall  ? 

D'Aubigne.  Oh  !  swiftly  now, 
And  suddenly,  with  brief,  dread  interval, 
Comes  down  the  mortal  stroke.     But  of  that  hour, 
As  yet,  I  know  not.     Each  low,  throbbing  pulse 
Of  the  quick  pendulum  may  usher  in 
Eternity. 

Blanche.  My  father  !  lay  thy  hand 
On  thy  poor  Blanche's  head,  and  once  again 
Bless  her  with  thy  deep  voice  of  tenderness, 
Thus  breathing  saintly  courage  through  her  soul 
Ere  we  are  called. 

D  ^Auhigne.  If  I  may  speak  through  tears. 
Well  may  I  bless  thee,  fondly,  fervently. 
Child  of  my  heart ! — thou  who  dost  look  on  me 
With  thy  lost  mother's  angel  eyes  of  love ! 
Thou  that  hast  been  a  brightness  in  my  path, 
A  guest  of  Heaven  unto  my  lowly  soul, 
A.  stainless  lily  in  my  widowed  house. 
There  springing  up,  with  soft  light  round  thee  shed, 
For  immortality  !     Meek  child  of  God  ! 
T  blftvss  thee  !     He  will  bless  thee  !     In  his  love 


474  SAN-DERS      UNION    SERIES 

He  calls  thee  now  from  this  rude,  stormy  world, 
To  thy  Redeemer's  breast.     And  thou  wilt  die. 
As  thou  hast  lived,  my  duteous,  holy  Blanche, 
In  trusting  and  serene  submissiveness, 
Humble,  yet  full  of  Heaven. 

Blanche.  Now  is  there  strength 
Infused  through  all  my  spirit.     I  can  rise 
And  say, — "  Thy  will  be  done  !" 

D'Auhigne.  Seest  thou,  my  child, 
3fon  faint  line  in  the  west  ?     The  signal  star 
Of  our  due  evening  service,  gleaming  in 
Through  the  close  dungeon  grating  ?     Mournfully 
It  seems  to  quiver ;  yet  shall  this  night  pass, 
This  night  alone,  without  the  lifted  voice 
Of  adoration  in  our  narrow  cell, 
As  if  unworthy  fear^  or  wavering  faith 
Silenced  the  strain  ?     No !  let  it  waft  to  Heaven 
The  prayer,  the  hope  of  poor  mortality. 
In  its  dark  hour  once  more  !     And  we  will  sleep, — 
Yes, — calmly  sleep,  when  our  last  rite  is  closed. 


EXERCISE  CXL. 
HEART  AND  HEAD. 

8D8AN   FENTMORE  COOPER.* 

1.  There  are  two  different  fountains  whence  inspiration  flows 
to  the  writer — the  intellect  and  the  heart — thought  and  feeling 
Thought  makes  the  best  artist,  has  greater  foresight,  a  wiser 
command  of  means,  gives  greater  completeness,  higher  finish 
But  heart  has  a  power  even  beyond  this,  a  power  of  life  and 
soul,  more  entirely  swaying  human  sympathy  and  action ;  it  has 
more  freshness,  more  originality,  more  sincerity — its  highest 
influences  are  even  more  enduring. 

*  See  Exercise  LXXX. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  -ITS 

2.  Thought  sees  truth,  and  reveals  it,  or  often  may  conceal  it. 
Heart  feeis  truth  itself,  and,  with  a  generous  fullness  of  eloquence, 
all  its  own,  to  which  no  enthousiasme  de  commanded  can  ever 
attain,  compels  conviction.  Many  a  highly  polished  classic 
Sonnet  lies  in  cold  neglect  on  the  library  shelf,  while  the  humble 
ballad,  full  of  true  natural  feeling,  is  preserved  in  affectionate, 
living  remembrance.  These  two  great  influences,  intellect  and 
feeling,  are  found  acting  in  partial  independence  of  each  other 

3.  What  a  man  writes  with  the  intellect  only,  may  be  entirely 
foreign  to  his  own  life — work  wholly  artificial ;  what  he  really 
writes  from  his  heart,  must  necessarily  have  the  same  coloring 
OS  his  character — flowing  from  his  own  inmost  nature,  and  carry 
with  it  something  of  the  inherent  force  of  truth.  "  Have  a 
heart,  and  know  it,"  is  the  advice  of  the  great  Polish  poet.  It 
is,  however,  where  both  powers  are  called  into  action,  in  all  their 
fullness,  that  the  noblest  writings  are  produced.  Where  a  strong 
intellect  plans,  and  a  generous,  upright  heart  works,  there  we 
may  look  for  a  great  book. 

4.  Imitation  can  never,  for  this  reason,  attain  to  the  very 
highest  and  most  effective  excellence — it  is  a  work  of  the  head 
only ;  it  may  be  very  skillful,  quite  faultless,  very  successful  in 
its  way,  but  the  soul  and  spirit  must  ever  be  wanting.  Genius, 
like  the  wonderful  thrushf  of  the  American  wood,  may  have  its 
many  voices,  it  may  even  condescend  to  sing  its  lays  to  borrowed 
tunes:  the  careless  wayfarer  is  deceived;  passing  along,  he 
fancies  that  he  hears  the  robin,  or  the  ground-sparrow;  but, 
when  the  rare  creature  pours  forth  its  own  noble  song,  he  pauses 
with  upward  gaze,  and  lingers,  lost  in  delight,  listening  to  those 
"  native  wood  notes  wild." 

*  Forced  feeling  ;  feigned  enthusiasm. 

f  Of  this  remarkable  bird  a  celebrated  ornithologist  observes  that  "  in 
dark  and  gloomy  weather,  when  other  birds  are  sheltered  and  silent,  the 
clear  notes  of  the  Wood  Thrush  are  heard  through  the  dropping  woods, 
from  dawn  to  dusk,  so  that  the  sadder  the  day,  the  sweeter  and  more 
constant  is  his  song.  His  clear  and  interrupted  whistle  is  often  nearly 
the  only  voice  of  melody  heard  by  the  traveler,  at  mid-day,  in  the  heat 
of  summer,  as  he  traverses  the  silent  wilderness,  remote  from  the  haunts 
of  men  " 


476  SANDERS'     UNION    SERIES. 


EXERCISE  CXLI. 

William  Collins  was  born  at  Chichester,  England,  on  Christmas  day, 
1720.  He  died  in  the  year  1756.  Aided  by  his  uncle,  for  his  father  was 
poor,  he  received  a  college  education.  His  writings,  even  while  a  student  in 
dollege,  gave  decided  indications  of  superior  power,  though,  strange  to  say, 
they  were  treated  with  utter  neglect.  And  stranger  still  is  the  {act,  that, 
even  after  the  production  of  his  later  and  more  finished  pieces,  the  same 
inexplicable  neglect  attended  him.  This  disappointment  of  his  hopes  ^uite 
overpowered  him  :  depressing  and  finally  deranging  his  sensitive  spirit.  And 
yet  "  his  works,"  says  an  appreciative  critic,  "  are  imbued  with  a  fine,  ethereal 
fancy  and  purity  of  taste ;  and,  though  like  the  poems  of  Gray,  they  are  small 
in  number  and  amount,  they  are  rich  in  vivid  imagery  and  beautiful  descrip- 
tion."    We  give  below  his  now  celebrated  "  Ode  on  the  Passions." 

1  Fauns,  or  Fau^'ni,  is  the  name  applied  by  the  Romans  to  certain 
gods  of  the  woods,  held  in  especial  reverence  by  the  tillers  of  the  soil. 
They  are  represented  as  having  the  legs,  feet,  and  ears  of  goats,  and 
the  remaining  parts  those  of  a  human  being. 

2  Dry''ad8,  or  Dry'  a  des,  that  is,  Wood-Nymphs,  form  one  of  the 
various  classes  of  nymphs,  or  female  deities,  with  which  the  imagina- 
tion of  the  ancient  Greeks  peopled  the  woods  and  groves.  The  nymphs 
were  the  attendants  of  the  goddesses.  They  waited  on  Juno  and  Venus, 
and,  arrayed  in  the  attire  of  a  huntress,  accompanied  Diana  in  the 
chase. 

'  Sa'tyes,  or  Satyri,  were  a  sort  of  demi-gods  presiding  over,  or 
dwelling  in,  the  country.  They  had  feet  and  legs  like  those  of  goats, 
short  horns  on  the  head,  and  the  whole  body  covered  with  hair.  Th© 
Satyrs  were  among  the  Greeks  what  the  Fauns  were  among  the  Romans. 
They  were  very  fond  of  music,  and  always  appeared  at  the  festivals  of 
Bacchus,  dancing,  and  playing  on  musical  instruments. 

*  Tem^'pe,  a  valley  in  Thessaly  in  ancient  Greece,  between  Mount 
Olympus  at  the  north  and  Ossa  at  the  south,  through  which  flowed  the 
river  Peneus.     It  is  greatly  celebrated  by  the  poets, 

ODE  ON  THE  PASSIONS. 

WnXIAM  OOLLINS. 
I. 

When  Music,  heavenly  maid  !  was  young, 
^  While  yet  in  early  Greece  she  sung, 

The  Passions  oft,  to  hear  her  sheL, 
Thronged  around  her  magic  cell ', 
Exulting,  trembling,  raging,  fainting, 
Possessed  beyond  the  Muse's  painting ; 


RHETORICAL    READER.  477 

By  turns  they  felt  the  glowing  mind 
Disturbed,  delighted,  raised,  refined; 
Till  once,  'tis  said,  when  all  were  fired, 
Filled  with  fury,  rapt,  inspired, 
From  the  supporting  myrtles  round, 
They  snatched  her  instruments  of  sound  j 
And,  as  they  oft  had  heard  apart 
Sweet  lessons  of  her  forceful  art, 
Each,  for  Madness  ruled  the  hour. 
Would  prove  his  own  expressive  .power. 

II. 

First  Fear  his  hand,  its  skill  to  try. 
Amid  the  chords,  bewildered  laid ; 
And  back  recoiled,  he  knew  not  why, 
E'en  at  the  sound  himself  had  made. 

III. 
Next  Anger  rushed,  his  eyes  on  fire, 
In  lightnings  owned  his  secret  stings  j 
In  one  rude  clash  he  struck  the  lyre. 
And  swept  with  hurried  hand  the  strings 

IV. 

With  woeful  measures  wan  Despair, 
Low,  sullen  sounds  his  grief  beguiled ; 
.\  solemn,  strange,  and  mingled  air ; 
'Twas  sad  by  fits,  by  starts  'twas  wild. 

V. 

But  thou,  0  Hope  !  with  eyes  so  fair, 

What  was  thy  delighted  measure  ? 

Still  it  whispered  promised  pleasure. 
And  bade  the  lovely  scenes  at  distance  hail. 

Still  would  her  touch  the  strain  prolong ; 

And  from  the  rocks,  the  woods,  the  vale. 
She  called  on  Echo  still  through  all  the  song  j 

And,  where  her  sweetest  theme  she  chose. 


478  SANDERS'     UNION     SERIES. 

A  soft,  responsive  voice  was  heard  at  every  close ; 

And  Hope  enchanted  smiled,  and  waved  her  golden  hair. 

VI. 

And  longer  had  she  sung;  hut  with  a  frown 

Revenge  impatient  rose : 
He  tl  rew  his  blood-stained  sword  in  thunder  down» 

And,  with  a  withering  look, 

The  war-denouncing  trumpet  took, 

And  blew  a  blast  so  loud  and  dread, 
Were  ne'er  prophetic  sounds  so  full  of  woe ; 

And  ever  and  anon  he  beat 

The  doubling  drum  with  furious  heat ; 
And,  though  sometimes,  each  dreary  pause  between, 

Dejected  Pity  at  his  side 

Her  soul-subduing  voice  applied, 
Yet  still  he  kept  his  wild,  unaltered  mien. 
While  each  strained  ball  of  sight  seemed  bursting  from  his  head. 

VII. 

Thy  numbers,  Jealousy,  to  naught  were  j&xed ; 

Sad  proof  of  thy  distressful  state  j 
Of  differing  themes  the  veering  song  was  mixed, 
And  now  it  courted  Love,  now  raving  called  on  Hate 

VIII. 

With  eyes  upraised,  as  one  inspired, 

Pale  Melancholy  sat  retired, 

And,  from  her  wild  sequestered  seat, 

In  notes  by  distance  made  more  sweet, 
Poured  through  the  mellow  horn  her  pensive  soul ; 

And  dashing  soft  from  rocks  around, 

Bubbling  runnels  joined  the  sound; 
Through  glades  and  glooms  the  mingled  measure  stole : 

Or  o'er  some  haunted  stream  with  fond  delay, 

Round  a  holy  calm  diffusing, 

Los^e  of  peace  and  lonely  musing, 

In  hollow  murmurs  died  away. 


RHETORICAL    READER 
IX. 

But,  oil !  how  altered  was  its  spriglitlier  tone, 

When  Cheerfulness,  a  nymph  of  healthiest  hue, 
Her  bow  across  her  shoulder  flung, 
Her  buskins  gemmed  with  morning  dew, 
Blew  an  inspiring  air,  that  dale  and  thicket  rung, 

The  hunter's  call,  to  Faun^  and  Dryad^  known; 

The  oak-crowned  sisters,  and  their  chaste-eyed  queen, 
Satyrs'  and  sylvan  boys,  were  seen 
Peeping  from  forth  their  alleys  green ; 
Brown  Exercise  rejoiced  to  hear. 

And  Sport  leaped  up,  and  seized  his  beechen  spear 


Last  came  Joy's  ecstatic  trial : 

He,  with  viny  crown  advancing, 
First  to  the  lively  pipe  his  hand  addressed ; 
But  soon  he  saw  the  brisk,  awakening  viol, 
Whose  sweet  entrancing  voice  he  loved  the  best. 

They  would  have  thought,  who  heard  the  strain 
They  saw,  in  Tempe's*  vale,  her  native  maids. 

Amidst  the  festal  sounding  shades, 

To  some  unwearied  minstrel  dancing  : 
While,  as  his  flying  fingers  kissed  the' strings, 
Love  framed  with  Mirth,  a  gay  fantastic  round, 
Loose  were  her  tresses  seen,  her  zone  unbound : 

And  he,  amidst  his  frolic  play. 
As  if  he  would  the  charming  air  repay. 
Shook  thousand  odors  from  his  dewy  wings, 

XI. 

0  Music  !  sphere-descended  maid, 
Friend  of  Pleasure,  Wisdom's  aid, 
Why,  goddess  !  why  to  us  denied, 
Lay'st  thou  thy  ancient  lyre  aside  ? 
As  in  that  loved  Athenian  bower, 
You  learned  an  all-commanding  power  ; 


470 


480  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES. 

Yhy  mimic  soul,  O  Nymph  endeared, 
Can  well  recall  what  then  it  heard. 
Where  is  thy  native  simple  heart. 
Devote  to  virtue,  fancy,  art? 

XII. 

Arise,  as  in  that  elder  time. 
Warm,  energetic,  chaste,  sublime ! 
Thy  wonders  in  that  godlike  age 
Fill  thy  recording  sister's  page ; 
'Tis  said,  and  I  believe  the  tale, 
Thy  humblest  reed  could  more  prevail, 
Had  more  of  strength,  diviner  rage. 
Than  all  which  charms  this  laggard  agej 
E'en  all,  at  once,  together  found, 
Cecilia's*  mingled  world  of  sound. 
Oh !  bid  our  vain  endeavors  cease, 
Revive  the  just  designs  of  Greece  j 
Return  in  all  thy  simple  state ; 
Confirm  the  tales  her  sons  relate. 


EXERCISE  CXLII. 

Edmttnd  Burke,  the  cel.?brated  British  orator  and  statesman,  was  born  m 
Dublin,  January  1st,  1730,  ind  died  in  the  year  1797.  He  was  a  profound 
thinker,  a  fine  scholar,  an  accomplished  debater,  and  a  truly  elegant  writer. 

William  Pitt,  first  Earl  of  Chatham,  one  of  England's  noblest  orators  and 
statesmen,  was  born,  at  Westminster,  November  15th,  1708,  and  died  May 
11th,  1778.  "  History,"  says  Macaulay,  "  while,  for  the  warning  of  vehe- 
ment, high  and  daring  natures,  she  notes  his  many  errors,  will  yet  delibe- 
rately pronounce,  that,  among  the  eminent  men  whose  bones  lie  near  his, 
tearoe  one  has  left  a  more  atainlesa,  and  none  a  more  splendid  name." 

BURKE  AND  CHATHAM. 

WILLIAM  HAZUTT.t 

1  The  only  public  man  that,  in  my  opinion,  can  be  put  in 
any  competition  with  Burke,  is  Lord  Chatham :  and  he  moved 

*  For  a  Note  on  Cecilia,  see  Exercise  CXLIX. 
t  For  a  Note  on  Hazlitt,  see  Exercise  XXIX 


RHETOttlCAL    READER  4:81 

in  a  sphere  so  very  remote,  that  it  is  almost  im  possible  to  com- 
pare them.  But,  though  it  would,  perhaps,  be  difl&cult  to  de- 
termine which  of  them  excelled  most  in  his  particular  way,  there 
is  nothing  in  the  world  more  easy  than  to  point  out  in  what 
this  peculiar  excellence  consisted.  They  were  in  every  respect 
the  reverse  of  each  other.  Chatham's  eloquence  was  popular : 
his  wisdom  was  altogether  plain  and  practical. 

2.  Burke's  eloquence  was  that  of  the  poet;  of  the  man  of 
high  and  unbounded  fancy :  his  wisdom  was  profound  and  con- 
templative. Chatham's  eloquence  was  calculated  to  make  men 
act ;  Burke's  calculated  to  make  them  think.  Chatham  could 
have  roused  the  fury  of  a  multitude,  and  wielded  their  physical 
energy  as  he  pleased  :  Burke's  eloquence  carried  conviction  into 
the  mind  of  the  retired  and  lonely  student,  opened  the  recesses 
of  the  human  breast,  and  lighted  up  the  face  of  nature  around 
him.  Chatham  supplied  his  hearers  with  motives  to  immediate 
action :  Burke  furnished  them  with  reasons  for  action,  which 
might  have  little  effect  upon  them  at  the  time,  but  for  which 
they  would  be  the  wiser  and  better  all  their  lives  after. 

8.  In  research,  in  originality,  in  variety  of  knowledge,  in 
richness  of  invention,  in  depth  and  comprehension  of  mind, 
Burke  had  as  much  the  advantage  of  Lord  Chatham  as  he  waa 
excelled  by  him  in  plain  common  sense,  in  strong  feeling,  in 
steadiness  of  purpose,  in  vehemence,  in  warmth,  in  enthusiasm, 
and  energy  of  mind. 

4.  Burke  was  the  man  of  genius,  of  fine  sense,  and  subtle 
reasoning ;  Chatham  was  a  man  of  clear  understanding,  of  strong 
sense,  and  violent  passions.  Burke's  mind  was  satisfied  with 
speculation;  Chatham's  was  essentially  «c<tye;  it  could  not  rest 
without  an  object.  The  power  which  governed  Burke's  mind 
was  his  Imagination ;  that  which  gave  its  impetus  to  Chatham's 
was  Will.  The  one  was  almost  the  creature  of  pure  intellect, 
the  other  of  physical  temperament. 

21  6  R 


482  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES. 


EXERCISE  CXLIII. 

Hyder  Ali,  the  celebrated  Sultan  of  Mysore,  was  born  'n  the  jear  1718 
•nd  died  in  1782.  The  East  India  Company,  becoming  jealous  of  his  pcwor, 
formed  alliances  against  him;  but  he  waged  war  so  vigorously  and  so  fuc- 
cessfully,  that  they  found  it  necessary  to  enter  into  treaty  with  him  to  aid 
him  in  his  defensive  wars.  When,  however,  he  called  upon  them  to  fulfil] 
their  engagements,  which  he  did  several  times  to  no  purpose,  he  projected 
the  terrible  invasion  which  forms  the  subject  of  the  following  brilliant  passage 

Mohammed  Ali,  Nabob  of  the  Carnatie,  an  ancient  province  of  British 
India,  on  the  eastern  coast  of  Hindoostan,  is  more  frequently  called  the 
Nabob  (^viceroy)  of  Arcot,  from  the  town  where  he  had  his  court.  He  held 
his  government,  through  the  force  of  British  policy  in  India,  to  the  prejudice 
of  the  claims  of  an  elder  brother.  Falling  under  the  influence  of  some 
British  residents,  who  encouraged  certain  ambitious  schemes  of  his,  and  who, 
taking  advantage  of  his  weak  character,  had  quietly  contrived  to  overload 
him  with  pecuniary  obligations,  when  he  found  himself  unable  to  defend  hig 
dominions,  he  was  obliged  to  assign  his  revenues  to  the  East  India  Company, 
in  order  to  defray  the  expen.ses  of  a  war  undertaken  by  them  in  his  (which, 
also,  involved  their)  defense.  But  it  soon  became  evident  that  these  very 
revenues  had  already  been  assigned  to  the  parties  before  mentioned,  who  had 
so  secretly  brought  the  Nabob  under  an  insupportable  load  of  debt.  It  being, 
therefore,  important  for  the  company  to  inquire  into  the  justice  of  the  claims 
of  these  cunning  creditors,  the  matter  finally  got  before  the  British  parlia- 
ment, where,  in  the  course  of  debate,  Mr.  Burke  delivered  (February  28th^ 
1786)  the  splendid  speech,  of  which  the  present  Exercise  forms  a  part. 

THE  INVASION  OF  THE  CARNATIC. 

BURKB. 

1.  When,  at  length,  Hyder  Ali  found  that  he  had  to  do  with 
men  who  either  would  sign  no  convention,  or  whom  no  treaty 
and  no  signature  could  <)ind,  and  who  were  the  determined 
enemies  of  human  intercourse  itself,  he  decreed  to  make  the 
country  possessed  by  these  incorrigible  and  predestined  criminals 
a  memorable  example  to  mankind. 

2.  He  resolved  in  the  gloomy  recesses  of  a  mind  capacious  of 
such  things,  to  leave  the  whole  Carnatie  an  everlasting  monu 
ment  of  vengeance,  and  to  put  perpetual  desolation  as  a  barribf 
between  him  and  those  against  whom  the  faith  which  holds  the 
moral  elements  of  the  world  together,  was  no  protection.  He 
became,  at  length,  so  confident  of  his  force,  so  collected  in  his 
might,  that  he  made  no  secret  whatsoever  of  his  dreadful  rego« 
lution. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  483 

8.  Having  terminated  his  disputes  with  every  enemy  and 
every  rival,  who  buried  their  mutual  animosities  in  their  common 
detestation  against  the  creditors  of  the  Nabob  of  Arcot,  he  diew 
from  every  quarter  whatever  a  savage  ferocity  could  add  to  his 
new  rudiments  in  the  arts  of  destruction;  and,  compounding  all 
the  materials  of  fury,  havoc,  and  desolation  into  one  black  cloud, 
he  hung  for  awhile  on  the  declivities  of  the  mountains. 

4.  While  the  authors  of  all  these  evils  were  idly  and  stupidly 
gazing  on  this  menacing  meteor,  which  blackened  all  their 
horizon,  it  suddenly  burst,  and  poured  down  the  whole  of  its 
contents  upon  the  plains  of  the  Carnatic.  Then  ensued  a  scene 
of  woe,  the  like  of  which  no  eye  had  seen,  no  heart  conceived, 
and  which  no  tongue  can  adequately  tell.  All  the  horrors  of 
war,  before  known  or  heard  of,  were  mercy  to  that  new  havoc. 
A  storm  of  universal  fire  blasted  every  field,  consumed  every 
house,  destroyed  every  temple 

5.  The  miserable  inhabitants,  flying  from  their  flaming  villages 
in  part  were  slaughtered ;  others,  without  regard  to  sex,  to  age, 
to  the  respect  of  rank,  or  sacredness  of  function  j  fathers  torn 
from  children,  husbands  from  wives,  enveloped  in  a  whirlwind 
of  cavalry,  and,  amid  the  goading  spears  of  drivers  and  the 
trampling  of  pursuing  horses,  were  swept  into  captivity,  in  an 
unknown  and  hostile  land.  Those  who  were  able  to  evade  this 
tempest,  fled  to  the  walled  cities ;  but,  escaping  from  the  fire, 
sword,  and  exile,  they  fell  into  the  jaws  of  famine. 

6.  For  eighteen  months,  without  intermission,  this  destruction 
raged  from  the  gates  of  Madras  to  the  gates  of  Tan j  ore ;  and 
so  completely  did  these  masters  in  their  art,  Hyder  Ali,  and  his 
more  ferocious  son,*  absolve  themselves  of  their  impious  vow, 
that  when  the  British  armies  traversed,  as  they  did,  the  Carnatic, 
for  hundreds  of  miles  in  all  directions,  through  the  whole  line  of 
their  march,  they  did  not  see  one  man — not  one  woman — not 
one  child- — not  one  four-footed  beast  of  any  description  what- 
ever !     One  dead,  uniform  silence  reigned  over  the  whole  region. 

*  Tippoo  Saib,  the  celebrated  son  of  Hyder  Ali,  here  referred  to,  vrua 
horn  in  1751,  and  succeeded  his  father  in  1782. 


484  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES. 

EXERCISE  CXLIV. 
THE  WAR  IN  AMERICA. 

LORD  CniTHAM* 

My  Lords : — 

1.  I  cannot  concur  in  a  blind  and  servile  address,  which 
approves,  and  endeavors  to  sanctify  the  monstrous  measures 
which  have  heaped  disgrace  and  misfortune  upon  us.  This,  my 
Lords,  is  a  perilous  and  tremendous  moment!  It  is  not  a  time 
for  adulation.  The  smoothness  of  flattery  can  not  now  avail — 
can  not  save  us  in  this  rugged  and  awful  crisis.  It  is  now 
necessary  to  instruct  the  throne  in  the  language  of  truth.  We 
must  dispel  the  illusion  and  the  darkness  which  envelop  it,  and 
display,  m  its  full  danger  and  true  colors,  the  ruin  that  is  brought 
to  our  doors. 

2.  Can  the  minister  of  the  day  now  presume  to  expect  a  con- 
tinuance of  support  in  this  ruinous  infatuation  ?  Can  parliament 
be  so  dead  to  its  dignity  and  its  duty  as  to  be  thus  deluded  into 
the  loss  of  the  one  and  the  violation  of  the  other  ?  To  give  an 
unlimited  credit  and  support  for  the  steady  perseverance  in 
measures  not  proposed  for  our  parliamentary  advice,  but  dictated 
and  forced  upon  us — in  measures,  I  sa}  my  Lords,  which  have 
reduced  this  late  flourishing  empire  to  ruin  and  contempt ! 
"  But  yesterday,  and  England  might  have  stood  against  the 
world :  now  none  so  poor  to  do  her  reverence."  I  use  the  words 
of  a  poet ;  but,  though  it  be  poetry,  it  is  no  fiction. 

3.  My  Lords,  this  ruinous  and  ignominious  situation,  where 
we  can  not  act  with  success,  nor  sufi'er  with  honor,  calls  upon  us 
to  remonstrate  in  the  strongest  and  loudest  language  of  truth, 
to  rescue  the  ear  of  majesty  from  the  delusions  which  surround 
it.  The  desperate  state  of  our  arms  abroad  is  in  part  known. 
No  man  thinks  more  highly  of  them  than  I  do.     I  love  and 

*  ♦•  This,"  says  Professor  Goodrich,  speaking  of  the  masterly  speech 
of  which  the  present  Exercise  forms  a  leading  part,  "  was  Lord  Chat- 
ham's greatest  effort.  It  would  be  difficult  to  find,  in  the  whole  range 
of  parliamentary  history,  a  more  splendid  blaze  of  genius."  It  was 
delivered  November  18th,  1777,  at  the  opening  of  Parliament. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  485 

honor  the  English  troops.  I  know  their  virtues  and  their  valor 
I  know  they  can  achieve  anything  except  impossibilities;  and  1 
know  that  the  conquest  of  English  America  is  an  impossihility. 
You  can  not,  I  venture  to  say  it,  you  can  not  conquer  America  ! 

4,  You  may  swell  every  expense  and  every  effort  still  more 
extravagantly  ;  pile  and  accumulate  every  assistance  you  can  buy 
or  borrow;  traffic  and  barter  with  every  little,  pitiful  German 
prince  that  sells  and  sends  his  subjects  to  the  shambles  of  a 
foreign  prince;  your  efforts  are  forever  vain  and  impotent — 
doubly  so  from  this  mercenary  aid  on  which  you  rely ;  for  it 
irritates,  to  an  incurable  resentment,  the  minds  of  your  enemies, 
to  overrun  them  with  the  mercenary  sous  of  rapine  and  plunder, 
devoting  them  and  their  possessions  to  the  rapacity  of  hireling 
cruelty  !  If  I  were  an  American,  as  I  am  an  Englishman, 
while  a  foreign  troop  was  landed  in  my  country,  I  never  would 
lay  down  my  arms — never — never — never  ! 

5.  But,  my  Lords,  who  is  the  man  that,  in  addition  to  these 
disgraces  and  mischiefs  of  our  army,  has  dared  to  authorize  and 
associate  to  our  arms  the  tomahawk  and  scalping-knife  of  the 
savage  ?  to  call  into  civilized  alliance  the  wild  and  inhuman 
savage  of  the  woods;  to  delegate  to  the  merciless  Indian  the 
defense  of  disputed  rights,  and  to  wage  the  horrors  of  his  bar- 
barous war  against  our  brethren  ?  My  Lords,  these  enormities 
cry  aloud  for  redress  and  punishment.  Unless  thoroughly  done 
away,  it  will  be  a  stain  on  the  national  character.  It  is  a  viola- 
tion of  the  Constitution. 

6.  Infected  with  the  mercenary  spirit  of  robbery  and  rapine ; 
familiarized  to  the  horrid  scenes  of  savage  cruelty,  it  can  no 
longer  boast  of  the  noble  and  generous  principles  which  dignify 
a  soldier ;  no  longer  sympathize  with  the  dignity  of  the  royal 
banner;  nor  feel  the  pride,  pomp,  and  circumstance  of  glorious 
war,  "  that  make  ambition  virtue  !"  What  makes  ambition 
virtue  ?  the  sense  of  honor  ! 

7,  But  i^  the  sense  of  honor  consistent  with  a  spirit  of  plun- 
der, or  the  practice  of  murder?  Can  it  flow  from  mercenary 
motives,  or  can  it  prompt  to  cruel  deeds  ?  Besides  these  mur- 
derers and   plunderers,  kt  me  ask  our  ministers — what  other 


486  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES. 

allies  have  they  acquired  ?  What  other  powers  Lave  they  asso- 
ciated to  their  cause  't  Have  they  entered  into  alliance  with  the 
king  of  the  Gi/psies  f  Nothing,  my  Lords,  is  too  low  or  too  ludi- 
crous to  be  consistent  with  their  counsels. 

8  I  am  astonished,  shocked,  to  hear  such  principles  confessed 
— to  hear  them  avowed  in  this  House,  or  in  this  country ;  prin- 
fliples  equftlly  unconstitutional,  inhuman,  and  unchristian  !  My 
I  ords,  we  are  called  upon,  as  members  of  this  House,  as  men,  as 
C-ristian  men,  to  protest  against  such  notions  standing  near  the 
throne,  polluting  the  ear  of  majesty. 

9.  "  That  God  and  nature  put  into  our  hands  ?''^  I  know  not 
wh.at  ideas  that  Lord  may  entertain  of  God  and  nature,  but  I 
Know  that  such  abominable  principles  are  equally  abhorrent  to 
religion  and  humanity.  What !  to  attribute  the  sacred  sanction 
of  God  and  nature  to  the  massacres  of  the  Indian  scalping-knife 
— to  the  cannibal  savage  torturing,  murdering,  roasting,  and 
eating — literally,  my  Lords,  eating  the  mangled  victims  of  his 
barbarous  battles !  Such  horrible  notions  shock  every  precept 
of  religion,  divine  or  natural,  and  every  generous  feeling  of 
humanity. 

10.  These  abominable  principles,  and  this  more  abominable 
avowal  of  them,  demand  the  most  decisive  indignation.  I  call 
upon  that  right  reverend  bench,  those  holy  ministers  of  the 
gospel,  and  pious  pastors  of  our  church — I  conjure  them  to  join 
in  the  holy  work,  and  vindicate  the  religion  of  their  God.  I 
appeal  to  the  wisdom  and  the  law  of  that  learned  bench,  to  defend 
and  support  the  justice  of  their  country. 

11.  I  call  upon  the  bishops,  to  interpose  the  unsullied  sanctity 
of  their  lawn;  upon  the  learned  judges,  to  interpose  the  p":irity 
of  their  ermine,  to  save  us  from  this  pollution.  I  call  upon  the 
honor  of  your  lordships,  to  reverence  the  dignity  of  your  ances- 
tors, and  to  maintain  your  own.  I  call  upon  the  spirit  and 
humanity  of  my  country,  to  vindicate  the  national  character. 
I  invoke  the  genius  of  the  Constitution.  From  the  tapestry  that 
adorns  these  walls,  the  immortal  ancestor  of  this  noble  Lord 
frowns  with  indignation  at  the  disgrace  of  his  country. 


RHETORICAL     READER.  487 


EXERCISE  CXLV. 

Cb&ales  Jamks  Fox,  a  distinguished  statesman  and  orator,  and,  in  the 
judgment  of  Edmund  Burke,  "the  most  accomplished  debater  the  world  ever 
saw,"  was  born  iu  London,  January  24th,  1749,  and  died  at  Chiswick,  Sep- 
tember 13th,  1806.  He  was  amiable  in  temper,  but  dissolute  in  life.  He  was 
utterly  spoiled,  in  early  life,  by  indulgence ;  yet  did  he  acquit  himself  hand- 
somely in  his  educational  career.  After  a  series  of  surprising,  not  to  say 
shameful  irregularities  of  conduct,  carried  on  at  home  as  well  as  during  travel 
abroad,  he  found  means,  in  1768,  to  get  a  seat  in  Parliament.  His  wholo 
political  career  was  stormy,  though  splendid,  and  forms  a  memorable  era  in 
British  parliamentary  history.  The  speech  of  v/hich  we  have  taken  the 
following  famous  passage,  was  delivered  during  a  debate,  in  February,  1800, 
on  a  motion  to  reject  certain  overtures  of  peace,  then  just  made  by  Napoleon 
Bonaparte,  to  the  British  government. 

SPEECH  ON  THE  OVERTURES  OF  BONAPARTE. 

CHARLES    JAMES   FOX. 

1.  Where,  then,  sir,  is  this  war,  which  on  every  side  is  preg- 
nant with  such  horrors,  to  be  carried  ?  Where  is  it  to  stop? 
One  campaign  is  successful  to  i/ou ;  another  to  them;  and,  in 
this  way,  animated  by  the  vindictive  passions  of  revenge,  hatred, 
and  rancor,  which  are  infinitely  more  flagitious,  even,  than  those 
of  ambition  and  the  thirst  of  power,  you  may  go  on  forever; 
as,  with  such  black  incentives,  I  see  no  end  to  human  misery. 

2.  And  all  this  without  an  intelligible  motive.  All  this  be- 
cause you  may  gain  a  better  peace  a  year  or  two  hence !  So 
that  we  are  called  upon  to  go  on  merely,  as  a  speculation!  We 
must  keep  Bonaparte  for  some  time  longer  at  war,  as  a  state  of 
prohation !  Grracious  God  !  sir,  is  war  a  state  of  probation  ? 
Is  peace  a  rash  system  ?  Is  it  dangerous  for  nations  to  live 
in  amity  with  each  other?  Are  your  vigilance,  your  policy, 
your  common  powers  of  observation,  to  be  extinguished  by 
putting  an  end  to  th.«  horrors  of  war  ?  Can  not  this  state  of 
probation  be  as  well  undergone  without  adding  to  the  catalogue 
of  human  sufferings  ? 

3.  ''But  we  must|>(/wse/''  What!  must  the  bowels  of  Great 
Britain  be  torn  out — her  best  blood  be  spilled — her  treasure 
wasted — that  you  may  make  an  experiment  f  Put  yourselves, 
oh !  that  you  would  put  yourselves  in  the  field  of  battle,  and 


488  SANDERS'     UNION     SERIES. 

learn  to  judge  of  the  sort  of  horrors  that  you  excite  !  In  forinei 
wars,  a  man  might,  at  least,  have  some  feeling,  some  interest, 
that  served  to  balance,  in  his  mind,  the  impressions  which  a 
scene  of  carnage  and  of  death  must  inflict. 

4.  If  a  man  had  been  present  at  the  battle  of  Blenheim,* 
for  instance,  and  had  inquired  the  motive  of  the  battle,  there 
was  not  a  soldier  engaged  who  could  not  have  satisfied  his 
curiosity,  and  even,  perhaps,  allayed  his  feelings.  They  were 
fighting,  they  knew,  to  repress  the  uncontrolled  ambition  of  the 
Grand  Monarch. 

5.  But,  if  a  man  were  present  now  at  a  field  of  slaughter, 
and  were  to  inquire  for  what  they  were  fighting — ^^  Fighting  !" 
would  be  the  answer;  "  they  are  not  fighting;  they  are  pausing." 
"  Why  is  that  man  expiring?  Why  is  the  other  writhing  with 
agony?  What  means  this  implacable  fury?"  The  answer 
must  be, — "  You  are  quite  wrong,  sir ;  you  deceive  yourself — 
they  are  not  fighting — do  not  disturb  them — they  are  merely 
pausing  ! 

6.  *'  This  man  is  not  expiring  with  agony — that  man  is  not 
dead — he  is  only  pausing  !  Lord  help  you,  sir  !  they  are  not 
angry  with  one  another;  they  have  now  no  cause  of  quarrel, 
but  their  country  thinks  there  should  be  a  pause!  All  that 
you  see,  sir,  is  nothing  like  fighting — there  is  no  harm,  nor 
bloodshed  in  it  whatever :  it  is  nothing  more  than  a  political 
pause  I  It  is  merely  to  try  an  experiment — to  see  whether 
Bonaparte  will  not  behave  himself  better  than  heretofore ;  and, 
in  the  meantime,  we  have  agreed  to  a. pause  in  pure  friendship!" 

7.  And  is  this  the  way,  sir,  that  you  are  to  show  yourselves 
the  advocates  of  order  ?  You  take  up  a  system  calculated  to 
utcivilize  the  world — to  destroy  order — to  trample  on  religion — 
to  stifle,  in  the  heart,  not  merely  the  generosity  of  noble  senti- 
ment, but  the  affections  of  social  nature ;  and,  in  the  prosecu" 
tion  of  this  system,  you  spread  terror  and  devastation  all  around 
you. 

*  See  Note  on  the  next  Exercise. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  489 


EXERCISE  CXLVI. 

Blenheim  {Blen'  hlme)  is  a  village  in  Bavaria,  where  was  fought  a 
great  battle,  August  13th,  1704,  between  the  English  and  the  Austrians 
on  the  one  side,  under  the  Duke  of  Marlborough  and  Prince  Eugene, 
and  the  French  and  the  Bavarians  on  the  other,  under  Marshal  Tallard, 
Margin,  and  the  Elector  of  Bavaria.  The  French  and  the  Bavarians 
were  defeated ;  but  the  loss  on  both  sides  was  immense.  This  defeat 
gare  a  decided  check  to  the  ambition  of  Louis  XIV. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  BLENHEIM. 


It  was  on  a  summer  evening, 
Old  Kasper's  work  was  done, 

And  he,  before  his  cottage  door, 
Was  sitting  in  the  sun. 

And  by  him  sported  on  the  green, 

His  little  grandchild  Wilhelmine. 

II. 
She  saw  her  brother  Peterkin 

Roll  something  large  and  round, 
Which  he  beside  the  rivulet. 

In  playing  there,  had  found ; 
He  came  to  ask  what  he  had  found. 
That  was  so  large,  and  smooth,  and  round. 

III. 

Old  Kasper  took  it  from  the  boy. 

Who  stood  expectant  by; 
And  then  the  old  man  shook  his  head, 

And  with  a  natural  sigh, — 
"  'Tis  some  poor  fellow's  skull,"  said  he, 
"  Who  fell  in  the  great  victory. 

*  See  Exercise  VII. 
21*  R 


SOUTHM.* 


190  SANDERS'    UNION    SEEIE8. 

IV. 

"  I  find  them  in  the  garden , 
For  there's  many  here  about ; 

And  often  when  I  go  to  plow, 
The  plowshare  turns  them  out . 

For  many  thousand  men,"  said  he, 

"  Were  slain  in  that  great  victory." 

V. 

"  Now  tell  us  what  'twas  all  about," 
Young  Peterkin,  he  cries ; 

While  little  Wilhelmine  looks  up, 
With  wonder-waiting  eyes ; 

"  Now  tell  us  all  about  the  war. 

And  what  they  killed  each  other  for." 

VI. 

"  It  was  the  English,"  Kasper  cried, 
Who  put  the  French  to  rout, 

But  what  they  killed  each  other  for, 
I  could  not  well  make  out. 

But  every  body  said,"  quoth  he, 

"  That  'twas  a  famous  victory. 

VII. 
*'  My  father  lived  at  Blenheim  then, 

Yon  little  stream,  hard  by; 
They  burnt  his  dwelling  to  the  ground, 

And  he  was  forced  to  fly; 
So,  with  his  wife  and  little  child,  he  fled, 
Nor  had  he  where  to  rest  his  head. 

VIII. 

"  With  fire  and  sword,  the  country  round 
Was  wasted,  far  and  wide ; 

And  many  a  nursing  mother  then. 
And  new-born  baby  died ; 

But  things  like  that,  you  know  must  be 

At  every  famous  victory. 


EHETORICAL    READEK.  491 

IX. 

"  They  say  it  was  a  shocking  sight^ 

After  the  field  was  won ; 
For  many  thousand  bodies  here 

Lay  rotting  in  the  sun ; 
But  things  like  that,  you  know,  must  be 
After  a  famous  victory. 

X. 

"  Great  praise  the  Duke  of  Marlbrough  won^    . 

And  our  young  prince,  Eugene." 
"  Why,  'twas  a  very  wicked  thing  I" 

Said  little  Wilhelmine. 
*'  Nay,  nay,  my  little  girl,''  quoth  he, 
"  It  was  a  famous  victory. 

XI. 

"  And  every  body  praised  the  Duke 

Who  this  great  fight  did  win." 
"  But  what  good  came  of  it,  at  last  T' 

Quoth  little  Peterkin. 
"  Why,  that  I  can  not  tell,"  said  he, 
"  But  'twas  a  glorious  victory  !" 


EXERCISE  CXLVII. 

Thomas  Gkat  was  born  in  London,  December  26th,  1716,  and  died  July 
24th.  1771.  After  his  college  course,  during  which  he  was  supported  with 
difficulty  by  the  private  earnings  of  his  mother,  his  father,  a  selfish  man, 
utterly  refusing  to  maintain  him,  he  set  out  (in  1739)  on  a  tour  over  the 
continent.  Two  months  after  his  return  to  London,  in  September,  1741,  his 
father,  having  squandered  what  money  he  had,  died.  His  mother,  who,  with 
a  neai  relative,  had  carried  on  a  small  business,  and  had  now  amassed  a 
moderate  competence,  retired  to  Stoke  Pogis,  in  Buckinghamshire.  Here,  it 
ta  said,  he  conceived  the  design  of  his  immortal  Elegy,  while  visiting  the 
beautiful  churchyard  in  that  place.  The  Elegy  was  finished  in  1749 ;  having 
been  begun  just  seven  years  before.  "Almost  every  line"  [of  it],  it  has  been 
well  remarked,  "has  fixed  itself  upon  the  popular  mind,  is  repeated  every 
year  and  every  day  by  the  cultivated  and  the  unlearned,  and  has  a  vital 
truthfulness  that  is  never  old."  Gray  is  the  author  of  several  other  poems 
of  remarkable  merit,  but  is,  and  always  will  be,  best  known,  as  the  author 


492  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES. 

of  this  matchless  performance.  He  was  a  person  of  small  stature,  handsome 
features,  stufiiously  nice  in  dress,  and  remarkably  res'jrved  in  company, 
though  known  to  be  a  man  of  almost  universal  culture. 

ELEGY  WRITTEN  IN  A  COUNTRY  CHURCH-YAED. 

THOMAS  0&> 
I 

The  curfew  tolls  tne  Knell  of  parting  day, 
The  lowing  herd  winds  slowly  o'er  the  lea, 

The  plowman  homeward  plods  his  weary  way. 
And  leaves  the  world  to  darkness  and  to  me 

II. 

Now  fades  the  glimmering  landscape  on  the  sight, 

And  all  the  air  a  solemn  stillness  holds, 
Save  where  the  beetle  wheels  his  droning  flight. 

And  drowsy  tinklings  lull  the  distant  folds : 

III. 
Save  that  from  yonder  ivy-mantled  tower, 

The  moping  owl  does  to  the  moon  complain 
Of  such  as,  wandering  near  her  secret  bower, 

Molest  her  ancient  solitary  reign. 

ly. 

Beneath  those  rugged  elms,  that  yew-tree's  shade. 
Where  heaves  the  turf  in  many  a  moldering  heap, 

Each  in  his  narrow  cell  forever  laid, 
The  rude  forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep. 

V. 

The  breezy  call  of  incense-breathing  morn, 

The  swallow  twittering  from  the  straw-built  shed, 

The  cock's  shrill  clarion,  or  the  echoing  horn, 
No  more  shall  rouse  them  from  their  lowly  bed. 

VI. 

For  them  no  more  the  blazing  hearth  shall  burn. 

Or  busy  housewife  ply  her  evening  care : 
No  children  run  to  lisp  their  sire's  return. 

Or  climb  his  knees  the  envied  kiss  to  share. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  493 

VII. 

Oft  did  the  harvest  to  their  sickle  yield, 

Their  furrow  oft  the  stubborn  glebe  has  broke ; 

How  jocund  did  they  drive  their  team  a-field  I 

How  bowed  the  woods  beneath  their  sturdy  stroke ! 

VIII. 

JiCt  not  Ambition  mock  their  useful  toil, 

Their  homely  joys,  and  destiny  obscure; 
Nor  Grrandeur  hear,  with  a  disdainful  smile, 

The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor. 

IX. 

The  boast  of  heraldry,  the  pomp  of  power, 
And  all  that  beauty,  all  that  wealth  e'er  gave, 

Await  alike  the  inevitable  hour : — 

The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave. 

X. 

Nor  you,  ye  proud,  impute  to  these  the  fault. 
If  Memory  o'er  their  tomb  no  trophies  raise. 

Where,  through  the  long-drawn  aisle  and  fretted  vault) 
The  pealing  anthem  swells  the  note  of  praise. 

XI. 

Can  storied  urn  or  animated  bust 

Back  to  its  mansion  call  the  fleeting  breath  ? 

Can  Honor's  voice  provoke  the  silent  dust. 

Or  Flattery  soothe  the  dull  cold  ear  of  Death  ? 

XII. 

Perhaps,  in  this  neglected  spot  is  laid 

Some  heart  once  pregnant  with  celestial  fire ; 

Hands  that  the  rod  of  empire  might  have  swayed, 
Or  waked  to  ecstasy  the  living  lyre : 

XIII. 

But  Knowledge  to  their  eyes  her  ample  page, 
Kich  with  the  spoils  of  time,  did  ne'er  unroll  j 


394  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES. 

Chill  Penury  repressed  their  noble  rage, 
And  froze  the  genial  current  of  the  soul. 

XTV. 

Full  many  a  gem,  of  purest  ray  serene, 

The  dark  unfathomed  caves  of  ocean  bear : 

Full  many  a  flower  is  born  to  blush  unseen, 
A  nd  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air. 

XV. 

Some  village-Hampden,  that  with  dauntless  breap-t 
The  little  tyrant  of  his  fields  withstood ; 

Some  mute  inglorious  Milton  here  may  rest, 
Some  Cromwell  guiltless  of  his  country's  blood. 

XVI. 

The  applause  of  listening  senates  to  command, 
The  threats  of  pain  and  ruin  to  despise, 

To  scatter  plenty  o'er  a  smiling  land. 

And  read  their  history  in  a  nation's  eyes, 

XVII. 

Their  lot  forbade  :  nor  circumscribed  alone 

Their  growing  virtues,  but  their  crimes  confinea  j 

Forbade  to  wade  through  slaughter  to  a  throne, 
And  shut  the  gates  of  mercy  on  mankind : 

XVIII. 

The  struggling  pangs  of  conscious  truth  to  hide. 
To  quench  the  blushes  of  ingenuous  shame, 

Or  heap  the  shrine  of  Luxury  and  Pride 
With  incense  kindled  at  the  Muse's  flame. 

XIX. 

Far  from  the  madding  crowd's  ignoble  strife 
Their  sober  wishes  never  learned  to  stray ; 

Along  the  cool,  sequestered  vale  of  life 
Thay  kept  the  noiseless  tenor  of  their  way. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  495 

XX. 

Yet   e'en  these  bones  from  insult  to  protect, 

Some  frail  memorial  still  erected  nigh, 
With  uncouth  rhymes  and  shapeless  sculpture  decked, 

Implores  the  passing  tribute  of  a  sigh. 

XXI. 

Their  name,  their  years,  spelt  by  the  unlettered  mise, 

The  place  of  fame  and  elegy  supply : 
And  many  a  holy  text  around  she  strews, 

That  teach  the  rustic  moralist  to  die. 

XXII. 

For  who,  to  dumb  Forgetfulness  a  prey, 
This  pleasing  anxious  being  e'er  resigned, 

Left  the  warm  precincts  of  the  cheerful  day, 
Nor  cast  one  longing,  lingering  look  behind  ? 

XXIII. 

On  some  fond  breast  the  parting  soul  relies, 
Some  pious  drops  the  closing  eye  requires ; 

E'en  from  the  tomb  the  voice  of  nature  cries, 
E'en  in  our  ashes  live  their  wonted  fires. 

XXIV. 

l^'or  thee,  who,  mindful  of  the  unhonored  dead, 
Dost  in  these  lines  their  artless  tale  relate; 

If  chance,  by  lonely  Contemplation  led. 
Some  kindred  spirit  shall  inquire  thy  fate ; 

XXV. 

Haply  some  hoary-headed  swain  may  say, — 
"  Oft  have  we  seen  him  at  the  peep  of  dawn 

Brushing  with  hasty  steps  the  dews  away, 
To  meet  the  sun  upon  the  upland  lawn. 

XXVI. 

There  at  the  foot  of  yonder  nodding  beech. 
That  wreathes  its  old  fantastic  roots  so  high, 


196  SANDERS*    UNION    SERIES. 

His  listless  length  at  noontide  would  he  stretch, 
And  pore  upon  the  brook  that  babbles  by. 

XXVII. 

Hard  by  yon  wood,  now  smiling  as  in  scorn, 
Muttering  his  wayward  fancies  he  would  rove ; 

Now  drooping,  woeful,  wan,  like  one  forlorn, 

Or  crazed  with  care,  or  crossed  in  hopeless  love. 

XXVIII. 

One  morn  I  missed  him  on  the  'customed  hill, 
Along  the  heath  and  near  his  favorite  tree; 

Another  came ;  nor  yet  beside  the  rill, 
Nor  up  the  lawn,  nor  at  the  wood  was  he. 

XXIX. 

The  next,  with  dirges  due,  in  sad  array, 

Slow  through  the  churchway  path  we  saw  him  borne  j 
Approach  and  read  (for  thou  canst  read)  the  lay 

Graved  on  the  stone  beneath  yon  aged  thorn.'' 

THE  EPITAPH. 
I. 

Here  rests  his  head  upon  the  lap  of  Earth, 
A  Youth,  to  Fortune  and  to  Fame  unknown; 

Fair  Science  frowned  not  on  his  humble  birth, 
And  Melancholy  marked  him  for  her  own. 

II. 
Large  was  his  bounty,  and  his  soul  sincere, 

Heaven  did  a  recompense  as  largely  send : 
He  gave  to  Misery  all  he  had, — a  tear, 

He  gained  from  Heaven  ('twas  all  he  wished),  a  fnenct 

III. 

No  farther  seek  his  merits  to  disclose. 

Or  draw  his  frailties  from  their  dread  abode, 

(There  they  alike  in  trembling  hope  repose). 
The  bosom  of  his  Father  and  his  Grod. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  497 


EXERCISE  CXLVIII. 

John  Dryden  was  born  in  Northamptonshire,  England,  August  9tb,  1631, 
and  died  May  1st,  1700.  He  discovered  remarkable  talent,  while  yet  a1 
school,  in  his  translations  from  some  of  the  classics.  His  character,  as  a 
writer,  in  later  life,  is  sufficiently  marked  in  the  following  parallel ;  as  a  man 
though  amiable  in  temper,  domestic  in  turn,  and  virtuous  in  life,  he  lacked 
firmness  and  consistency,  looking  rather  to  the  fleeting  interests  of  the 
ta.iment  than  to  the  more  durable  rewards  of  solid  reputation. 

Alexander  Pope  was  born  in  London,  May  21st,  1688,  and  died  at 
Twickenham,  May  30th,  1744.  Deformed  in  body,  and  sickly  in  constitution, 
his  early  education,  to  use  his  own  words,  was  ♦'  extremely  loose  and  discon- 
certed." He  was  always,  however,  a  diligent  student,  and  a  yet  more  diligent 
corrector  of  his  own  works ;  and  hence  his  peculiar  claims  to  excellence,  as  a 
polished  composer.  As  Dryden  gave  us,  in  English,  the  great  epic  poem  of  the 
Latins,  the  ^Eneid  of  Virgil,  so  Pope,  in  smoother  verse,  but  not  in  truer 
translation,  has  given  us  the  great  epic  of  the  Greeks,  the  Iliad  of  Homer. 

PARALLEL  BETWEEN  DRYDEN  AND  POPE. 

SAMUEL  JOHNSON.* 

1.  Integrity  of  understanding  and  nicety  of  discernment  were 
not  allotted  in  a  less  proportion  to  Dryden  than  to  Pope.  The 
rectitude  of  Dryden's  mind  was  sufficiently  shown  by  the  dis- 
mission of  his  poetical  prejudices,  and  the  rejection  of  unnatural 
thoughts  and  rugged  numbers.  But  Dryden  never  desired  to 
apply  all  the  judgment  that  he  had.  He  wrote,  and  professed 
to  write,  merely  for  the  people ;  and  when  he  pleased  others  he 
contented  himself.  He  spent  no  time  in  struggles  to  rouse  latent 
powers;  he  never  attempted  to  make  that  better  which  was 
already  good,  nor  often  to  mend  what  he  must  have  known  to 
be  faulty.  He  wrote,  as  he  tells  us,  with  very  little  considera- 
tion; when  occasion  or  necessity  called  upon  him,  he  poured 
out  what  the  present  moment  happened  to  supply,  and,  when 
once  it  had  passed  the  press,  ejected  it  from  his  mind;  for  when 
he  had  no  pecuniary  interest,  he  had  no  further  solicitude. 

2.  Pope  was  not  content  to  satisfy :  he  desired  to  excel,  and, 
therejfore,  always  endeavored  to  do  his  best :  he  did  not  court 
the  candor,  but  dared  the  judgment  of  his  reader,  and,  expect- 
ing no  indulgence  from  others,  he  showed  none  to  himself.     He 

*  See  Exercise  CXVI. 
21 


498  bANDERS'     UNION     SERIES. 

examined  lines  and  words  with  minute  and  punctilious  observa- 
tion, and  ivitouched  every  part  with  indefatigable  diligence,  till 
he  had  left  nothing  to  be  forgiven. 

3.  Pope  had,  perhaps,  the  judgment  of  Dry  den,  but  Dryden 
certainly  wanted  the  diligence  of  Pope.  In  acquired  knowledge, 
the  superiority  must  be  allowed  to  Dryden,  whose  education  was 
more  scholastic,  and  who,  before  he  became  an  author,  had  been 
sillf  wed  more  time  for  study,  with  better  means  of  information. 
His  mind  has  a  larger  range,  and  he  collects  his  images  and 
illustrations  from  a  more  extensive  circumference  of  science. 
Dryden  knew  more  of  man,  in  his  general  nature,  and  Pope  in 
his  local  manners.  The  notions  of  Dryden  were  formed  by  com- 
prehensive speculation,  and  those  of  Pope  by  minute  attention. 
There  is  more  dignity  in  the  knowledge  of  Dryden,  and  more 
certainty  in  that  of  Pope. 

4.  Poetry  was  not  the  sole  praise  of  either ;  for  both  excelled 
likewise  in  prose ;  but  Pope  did  not  borrow  his  prose  from  his  pre- 
decessor. The  style  of  Dryden  is  capricious  and  varied  j  that 
of  Pope  is  cautious  and  uniform.  Dryden  obeys  the  motions 
of  his  own  mind ;  Pope  constrains  his  mind  to  his  own  rules  of 
composition.  Dryden  is  sometimes  vehement  and  rapid ;  Pope 
is  always  smooth,  uniform,  and  gentle.  DrydenV  page  is  a 
natural  field,  rising  into  inequalities,  and  diversified  by  the  varied 
exuberance  of  abundant  vegetation  j  Pope's  is  a  velvet  lawn, 
shaven  by  the  scythe,  and  leveled  by  the  roller. 

5.  Of  genius,  that  power  which  constitutes  a  poet,  that 
quality  without  which  judgment  is  cold  and  knowledge  is  inert, 
that  energy  which  collects,  combines,  amplifies,  and  animates, 
the  superiority  must,  with  some  hesitation,  be  allowed  to  Dryden. 
It  is  not  to  be  inferred  that  of  this  poetical  vigor  Pope  had  only 
a  little,  because  Dryden  had  more ;  for  every  other  writer  since 
Milton  must  give  place  to  Pope  j  and  even  of  Dryden  it  must 
be  said,  that,  if  he  has  brighter  paragraphs,  he  has  not  better 
poems. 

6.  Dry  den's  performances  were  always  hasty,  either  excited 
"'by  some  external  occasion,  or  extorted  by  domestic  necessity; 

he  composed  without  consideration,  and  publisb<ad  without  cor- 


RHETORICAL    READER.  49& 

rection.  What  his  mind  could  supply  at  call,  or  gather  in  one 
excursion,  was  all  that  he  sought,  and  all  that  he  gave.  The 
dilatory  caution  of  Pope  enabled  him  to  condense  his  senti- 
ments, to  multiply  his  images,  and  to  accumulate  all  that  study 
might  produce  or  chance  might  supply.  If  the  flights  of  Dry- 
den,  therefore,  are  higher,  Pope  continues  longer  on  the  wing. 
If  of  Dry  den's  fire  the  blaze  is  brighter,  of  Pope's  the  heat  is 
more  regular  and  constant.  Dryden  often  surpasses  expectation, 
and  Pope  never  falls  below  it.  Dryden  is  read  with  frequent 
astonishurent,  and  Pope  with  perpetual  delight. 


EXERCISE  CXLIX. 

Alexander,  usually  called  Alexander  the  Great,  son  of  the  celebrated 
Philip  of  Macedon,  was  born  in  the  year  356  b.  c.  He  mounted  the  throne 
of  his  father  at  the  age  of  twenty,  and,  after  bringing  the  Grecian  states  into 
complete  submission,  set  out  for  the  conquest  of  Asia.  His  career  of  con- 
quest, in  the  East,  was  one  continuous  scene  of  carnage,  till  his  own  death,  at 
Babylon,  in  June,  323  B.C..  hastened  on  by  drunken  revelries,  put  an  end  to 
his  inhuman  course.  Adulation,  akin  to  that  supposed  in  the  following  piece 
by  Dryden,  quite  turned  his  head. 

Timo'theus  was  a  famous  musician  of  Thebes  in  Boeotia.  He  was 
one  of  those  honored  with  an  invitation  to  the  wedding  of  Alexander. 
His  musical  performance  is  said  to  have  animated  the  monarch  so 
intensely,  that  he  started  up  in  the  midst  of  the  company,  and  seized 
his  arms.  In  the  ode  which  follows,  Dryden  reproduces  this  incident : 
representing  the  king  as  brought  into  complete  captivity  to  the  charms  of 
mu.sic.  The  Timoiheus,  here  introduced,  is  not  to  be  confounded  with  an- 
other Timotheus,  also  a  great  musician,  who  was  a  Milesian,  but  who  died 
some  two  or  three  years  before  the  birth  of  Alexander. 

Jove,  or  Ju'pitkr,  was  the  supreme  deity  of  the  Romans  ^  Olym'pia,  or 
Olym'pias,  was  the  wife  of  Philip  of  Macedon,  and  the  mother  of  A  lex  an 
der ;  Bacchus  was  tho  god  of  wine,  and  a  son  of  Jupiter. 

Dari'us,  surnamed  Codom'anus,  was  the  reigning  krug  of  Persia  at  the 
time  of  Alexander's  invasion. 

Tha'is  was  a  famous  Athenian  beauty  who  accompanied  Alexander  od 
his  Eastern  exhibition. 


500  SANDERS'     UNION     SERIES. 

Cecilia  is  the  name  of  a  Saint  whose  anniversary  is  celebrated  on  the 
22d  of  November.  She  is  the  chosen  patroness  of  sacred  music.  She 
lived  in  the  third  century. 

ALEXANDER'S  ROYAL  FEAST. 

DBTDSR.* 
I. 

'Twas  at  tlie  royal  feast,  for  Persia  won 
By  Philip's  warlike  son  : 

Aloft  in  awful  state 

The  godlike  hero  sat 
On  his  imperial  throne  : 

His  valiant  peers  were  placed  around, 
Their  brows  with  roses  and  with  myrtles  bound  j 

(So  should  desert  in  arms  be  crowned.) 
The  lovely  Thais,  by  his  side, 
Sat  like  a  blooming  Eastern  bride, 
In  flower  of  youth  and  beauty's  pride. 

Happy,  happy,  happy  pair! 

None  but  the  brave. 

None  but  the  brave, 

None  but  the  brave  deserves  the  fair. 

II. 

Timotheus,  placed  on  high 

Amid  the  tuneful  choir, 

With  flying  fingers  touched  the  lyre : 
The  trembling  notes  ascend  the  sky, 

And  heavenly  joys  inspire. 
The  song  began  from  Jove, 
Who  left  his  blissful  seats  above, 
(Such  is  the  power  of  mighty  love !) 
A  dragon's  fiery  form  belied  the  god ; 
Sublime  on  radiant  spheres  he  rode, 

When  he  to  fair  Olympia  pressed, 
And  stamped  an  image  of  himself,  a  sovereign  of  the  world. 
The  listening  crowd  admire  the  lofty  sound, 

*  See  Exercise  preceding. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  601 

A  present  deity  !  they  shout  around  : 

A  present  deity  !  the  vaulted  roofs  rebound. 

With  ravished  ears 

The  monarch  hears, 

Assumes  the  god, 

Affects  to  nod, 
And  seems  to  shake  the  spheres. 

m. 

The  praise  of  Bacchus  then  the  sweet  musician  sung, — 
Of  Bacchus — ever  fair  and  ever  young : 
The  jolly  god  in  triumph  comes ; 
Sound  the  trumpets ;  beat  the  drums  : 
Flushed  with  a  purple  grace, 
He  shows  his  honest  face : 
Now  give  the  hautboys*  breath.     He  comes  !  he  comes ! 
Bacchus,  ever  fair  and  ever  young, 

Drinking  joys  did  first  ordain  j 
Bacchus'  blessings  are  a  treasure, 
Drinking  is  the  soldier's  pleasure  : 
Rich  the  treasure, 
Sweet  the  pleasure, 
Sweet  is  pleasure  after  pain. 

IV. 

Soothed  with  the  sound,  the  king  grew  vain ; 
Fought  all  his  battles  o'er  again ; 
And  thrice  he  routed  all  his  foes;  and  thrice  he  slew  the  slain 
The  master  saw  the  madness  rise ; 
His  glowing  cheeks,  his  ardent  eyes; 
And,  while  he  Heaven  and  Earth  defied, 
Changed  his  hand,  and  checked  his  pride. 

He  chose  a  mournful  Muse, 

Soft  pity  to  infuse  : 
He  sung  Darius,  great  and  good, 

By  too  severe  a  fate, 

*  Hautboy  [ho'  hoy),  a  musical  wind  instrument. 


502  SANDERS'     UNION     SERIES 

Fallen,  fallen,  fallen,  fallen, 
Fallen  from  his  high  estate, 

And  weltering  in  his  blood ; 
Deserted,  at  his  utmost  need, 
By  those  his  former  bounty  fed ; 
On  the  bare  earth  exposed  he  lies, 
With  not  a  friend  to  close  his  eyes. 
With  downcast  looks  the  joyless  victor  sat» 
Revolving  in  his  altered  soul 

The  various  turns  of  Chance  b^ow  j 
And,  no,w  and  then,  a  sigh  he  stole, 
And  tears  began  to  flow. 

V. 

The  mighty  master  smiled  to  see 
That  love  was  in  the  next  degree ; 
*Twas  but  a  kindred  sound  to  move ; 
For  pity  melts  the  mind  to  love. 
Softly  sweet,  in  Lydian*  measures, 
Soon  he  soothed  his  soul  to  pleasures 
War,  he  sung,  is  toil  and  trouble ; 
Honor  but  an  empty  bubble ; 

Never  ending,  still  beginning, 
Fighting  still,  and  still  destroying : 

If  the  world  be  worth  thy  winning, 
Think,  oh,  think  it  worth  enjoying ! 
Lovely  Thais  sits  beside  thee, 
Take  the  good  the  gods  provide  thee. 
The  many  rend  the  skies  with  loud  applause ; 
So  Love  was  crowned,  but  Music  won  the  cause. 
The  prince,  unable  to  conceal  his  pain, 
Gazed  on  the  fair 
Who  caused  his  care, 
And  sighed  and  looked,  sighed  and  looked, 
Sighed  and  looked,  and  sighed  again  : 

■*  The  Lydians,  a  people  of  Asia  Minor,  were  the  most  effeminate  and 
luxurious  of  all  the  Asiatics.  Lydian  music  was,  accordingly,  of  th« 
most  effeminate  character 


RHETORICAL    READER.  503 

At  length,  with  love  and  wine  at  once  oppi  ^ssed, 
The  vanquished  victor  sunk  upon  her  breast. 

VI. 

Now  strike  the  golden  lyre  again ; 
A  louder  yet,  and  yet  a  louder  strain. 
Break  his  bands  of  sleep  asunder, 
And  rouse  him  like  a  rattling  peal  of  thunder. 
Hark  !  hark  !  the  horrid  sound 
Has  raised  up  his  head, 
As  awaked  from  the  dead, 
And,  amazed,  he  stares  around. 
Revenge  !  revenge  !  Timotheus  cries, 
See  the  Furies  arise  ! 
See  the  snakes  that  they  rear  I 
How  they  hiss  in  their  hair, 
An*d  the  sparkles  that  flash  from  their  eyes  I 
Behold  a  ghastly  band, 
Each  a  torch  in  his  hand  ! 
These  are  Grecian  ghosts,  that  in  battle  were  slain, 
And  unburied  remain. 
Inglorious  on  the  plain  : 
Give  the  vengeance  due 
To  the  valiant  crew. 
Behold  how  they  toss  their  torches  on  high  ! 
How  they  point  to  the  Persian  abodes. 
And  glittering  temples  of  their  hostile  gods ! 
The  princes  applaud,  with  a  furious  joy; 
And  the  king  seized  a  flambeau  with  zeal  to  destroy; 
Thais  led  the  way, 
To  light  him  to  his  prey, 
And,  like  another  Helen,  fired  another  Troy!* 

*  Thai's,  who  is  said  to  have  instigated  Alexander  while  he  was  under 
the  influence  of  wine,  to  set  fire  to  the  splendid  palace  of  PerBepolis,  is 
here  made  true  to  her  character  in  directing  the  mad  purpose  of  the 
king;  and  the  picture  is  made  more  vivid  by  comparing  her  to  Hel'»n, 
whose  fatal  beauty  caused  the  downfall  of  ancient  Troy. 


504  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES. 

VII. 

Thus,  long  ago, 
Ere  heaving  bellows  learned  to  blow, 

While  organs  yet  were  mute  j 
Timotheus,  to  his  breathing  flute, 
And  sounding  lyre, 
Gould  swell  the  soul  to  rage,  or  kindle  soft  desire. 
At  last  divine  Cecilia  came, 
Inventress  of  the  vocal  frame ;  * 
The  sweet  enthusiast,  from  her  sacred  store, 
Enlarged  the  former  narrow  bounds, 
And  added  length  to  solemn  sounds. 
With  Nature's  mother- wit,  and  arts  unknown  before. 
Let  old  Timotheus  yield  the  prize, 

Or  both  divide  the  crown ; 
He  raised  a  mortal  to  the  skies ; 

She  drew  an  angel  down.  * 


EXERCISE  CL. 

Messiah  is  the  Hebrew,  as  Christ  is  the  Greek,  for  anointed:  the 
name  being  used  in  reference  to  the  ancient  custom,  among  the  Jews, 
of  setting  apart  both  persons  and  things  by  the  act  of  anointing. 
Hence  a  king  was  called  the  Lord's  anointed.  But  Messiah  is  the  desig- 
nation which  was  given,  by  pre-eminence,  among  the  Hebrews,  to  the 
Savior  of  the  world,  who  was  to  come,  and  center  in  himself  the  three 
fold  office  of  prophet,  priest,  and  king. 


POPE.-t 


MESSIAH'S  COMING. 

I. 
Hark !  a  glad  voice  the  lonely  desert  cheers ; 
Prepare  the  way !     A  God,  a  Grod  appears  ! 


*  This  refers  to  the  report  which  makes  Cecilia  the  inventress  of  tli« 
»rgan. 
+  See  Exercise  CXLVIII. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  505 

A  God  !  a  God !  the  vocal  hills  reply  j 
The  rocks  proclaim  the  approaching  Deity. 
Lo,  earth  receives  hiin  from  the  beading  skies ! 
Sink  down,  ye  mountains ;  and  ye  valleys,  rise ! 
With  heads  declined,  ye  cedars,  homage  pay  j 
Be  smooth,  ye  rocks ;  ye  rapid  floods,  give  way. 
The  Savior  comes  !  by  ancient  bards  foretold  ! 
Hear  him,  ye  deaf;  and  all  ye  blind,  behold ! 
He  from  thick  films  shall  purge  the  visual  ray, 
And  on  the  sightless  eyeball  pour  the  day : 
'Tis  he  the  obstructed  paths  of  sound  shall  clear, 
And  bid  new  music  charm  the  unfolding  ear : 
The  dumb  shall  sing,  the  lame  his  crutch  forego, 
And  leap  exulting,  like  the  bounding  roe. 

II. 

No  sigh,  no  murmui,  the  wide  world  shall  hear; 
From  every  face  he  wipes  off  every  tear. 
In  adamantine  chains  shall  death  be  bound, 
And  hell's  grim  tyrant  feel  the  eternal  wound. 
As  the  good  shepherd  tends  his  fleecy  care, 
Seeks  freshest  pasture,  and  the  purest  air ; 
Explores  the  lost,  the  wandering  sheep  directs, 
By  day  o'ersees  them,  and  by  night  protects ; 
The  tender  lambs  he  raises  in  his  arms. 
Feeds  from  his  hand,  and  in  his  bosom  warms : 
Thus  shall  mankind  his  guardian  care  engage, 
The  promised  father  of  the  future  age. 

III. 

No  more  shall  nation  against  nation  rise, 
Nor  ardent  warriors  meet  with  hateful  eyes. 
Nor  fields  with  gleaming  steel  be  covered  o'er. 
The  brazen  trumpets  kindle  rage  no  more  j 
But  useless  lances  into  scythes  shall  bend. 
And  the  broad  falchion  in  a  plowshare  end. 
22  6R 


506  SANDERS'     UNION    SERIES. 

Then  palaces  shall  rise ;  the  joyful  son 
Shall  finish  what  his  short-lived  sire  begun ; 
Their  vines  a  shadow  to  their  race  shall  yield, 
And  the  same  hand  that  sowed  shall  reap  the  field. 
The  swain  in  barren  deserts  with  surprise 
Sees  lilies  spring,  and  sudden  verdure  rise ; 
And  starts,  amidst  the  thirsty  wilds,  to  hear 
New  falls  of  water  murmuring  in  his  ear. 

IV. 

On  rifted  rocks,  the  dragon's  late  abodes, 

The  green  reed  trembles,  and  the  bulrush  nods. 

Waste  sandy  valleys,  onc6  perplexed  with  thorn, 

The  spiry  fir  and  shapely  box  adorn ; 

To  leafless  shrubs  the  flowering  palm  succeed, 

And  odorous  myrtle  to  the  noisome  weed. 

The  lambs  with  wolves  shall  graze  the  verdant  mead 

And  Doys  in  flowery  bands  the  tiger  lead; 

The  steer  and  lion  at  one  crib  shall  meet. 

And  harmless  serpents  lick  the  pilgrim's  feet; 

The  smiling  infant  in  his  hand  shall  take 

The  crested  basilisk  and  speckled  snake ; 

Pleased,  the  green  luster  of  the  scales  survey. 

And  with  their  forked  tongues  shall  innocently  play 

V. 

Rise,  crowned  with  light,  imperial  Salem,  rise  I 
Exalt  thy  towery  head,  and  lift  thine  eyes  I 
See  a  long  race  thy  spacious  courts  adorn ; 
See  future  sons  and  daughters  yet  unborn, 
In  crowding  ranks  on  every  side  arise. 
Demanding  life,  impatient  for  the  skies ! 
The  seas  shall  waste,  the  skies  in  smoke  decay, 
Rocks  fall  to  dust,  and  mountains  melt  away; 
But  fixed  his  word,  his  saving  power  remains ; 
Thy  realm  forever  lasts,  thy  own  Messiah  reigns ! 


RHETORICAL    READER.  507 


EXERCISE  CLI. 

Wash.ngton  Irving  was  born  April  3d,  1783,  and  died  November  28th, 
1859.  With  no  preparatory  education,  except  that  which  comes  of  a"  ordi- 
nary school  course,  he  entered,  at  the  early  age  of  sixteen,  upon  the  stuJy  of 
law.  Ill  health,  however,  added  to  the  natural  love  of  travel,  soon  sent  him 
abroad,  where  he  visited,  with  a  sort  of  romantic  interest,  many  parts  of 
Southern  Europe.  In,  1806  he  returned  to  New  York,  and  resumed  the  study 
of  law.  Literature,  however,  was  his  preference ;  and  so,  instead  of  prac- 
aiing  law,  after  he  was  admitted  to  the  bar,  he  joined  with  some  others  in 
•jhe  publication  of  a  series  of  humorous  papers  under  the  name  Salmayundi. 
which  engaged,  with  singular  interest,  the  attention  of  the  whole  town.  In 
1808  he  published  his  famous  serio-comic  •*  History  of  New  York,  by  Diedrich 
Knickerbocker,"  a  work  which,  for  rich  humor  and  rare  interest,  has,  perhaps, 
no  superior  in  the  whole  range  of  literature.  In  1815  he  embarked  again  for 
Europe,  and  there  resumed  his  career  of  authorship  :  publishing,  at  intervals, 
during  a  lapse  of  seventeen  years,  that  series  of  works  which  served  so  essen- 
tially to  raise  American  literature  in  the  estimation  of  European  judges. 
There,  too,  during  that  long  stay,  he  received  the  degree  of  LL,  D.  from  the 
University  of  Oxford.  In  1832  he  returned  to  America;  not,  however,  to 
enjoy  luxurious  ease,  but  to  continue  his  wonted  career.  His  last,  largest, 
and  best  work,  perhaps,  is  his  "  Life  of  Washington."  In  the  followin|iE  well- 
considered,  though  brief  sketch,  his  character,  as  a  man,  appears  no  less 
vividly  than  as  a  writer. 

WASHINGTON  IRVING  AS  A  WRITER. 

NEW   AM.   CrCLOP^DIA. 

1.  Humor  is  everywhere  the  distinguished  trait  of  Irving — a 
humor  descending  to  the  broadest  farce,  or  penetrating  to  the 
hidden  fountain  of  tears.  It  plays  around  the  historical  manu- 
scripts of  the  worthy  Fray  Antonio  Agapida,*  and  mingles 
exquisitely  with  the  pathos  of  his  serious  pictures.  Just,  manly, 
natural,  and  free  from  all  mawkish  sentimentality,  it  has  de- 
lighted old  and  young,  the  strong  man  and  the  invalid,  the 
happy  and  the  weary-hearted.  The  young  appreciate  it  as 
thoroughly  as  their  seniors;  for  it  has  its  foundation  in  the  feel- 
:ngs,  and  appeals  to  the  instincts  of  the  heart. 

2.  Another  conspicuous  merit  of  Irving  is  the  symmetry  and 
just  proportion  of  his  works.  They  are  often  constructed  with 
apparent  ease  and  carelessness,  but  really  with  very  great  labor 
and  art.     The  style  is  almost  uniformly  pure  and  graceful.     Its 

*  Irving's  "  Conquest  of  Grenada"  was  published  under  the  guise  of 
an  imaginary  contemporary  author, — Fray  Antonio  Agapida. 


d08  SANDERS      UNION    SERIES. 

melody  is  extreme ;  the  music  of  its  periods  and  pauses  is  some- 
times even  monotonous  from  its  excess  of  sweetness.  A  tender- 
ness almost  feminine,  occasionally  mingles  with  the  humor. 
The  last  trait  of  this  author  which  we  shall  notice,  is  the  vivid 
personality  which  shines  through  all  his  writings. 

3.  It  would  be  difficult  to  find  in  any  literature  a  more  marked 
instance  of  this  peculiarity.  Irving  seems  less  to  have  composed 
talc  and  histories  than  to  have  written  himself.  His  personality 
is  always  apparent — the  manly,  independent,  hopeful,  charitable 
human  being.  His  humanity  betrays  itself  under  every  disguise. 
Erery  motion  of  his  heart  seems  kindly,  generous,  and  good. 
A  respect  for  truth,  and  a  deep  sympathy  with  purity  and 
innocence,  shine  in  his  pages.  With  a  mind  unsoiled  by  mean- 
ness, suspicion,  or  hatred,  he  surveys  the  drama  of  human  life, 
and  extracts  from  it  a  lesson  of  charity  and  love. 

4.  Children  and  flowers  are  favorites  with  him.  All  is  bright 
and  warm  in  his  heart.  With  the  confiding  familiarity  of  an 
intimate  friend,  he  takes  the  reader  by  the  arm,  and  points  out 
the  beauties  of  the  landscape  before  him ;  gilding  every  object 
with  the  sunshine  of  his  humor,  and  smiling  with  the  happiest 
good-nature.  Few  authors  have  been  able  to  endear  themselves 
so  greatly  to  all  classes  of  readers.  The  poetry  which  informs 
many  brilliant  passages,  is  the  delight  of  the  imaginative  reader ; 
and  the  spirit  of  adventure,  ever  and  anon  flashing  out,  attracts 
the  lover  of  romance  and  travel. 


EXERCISE  CLII 
TEA-PARTIES  IN  OLD  TIMES. 

WASHINOTON  IKVI50. 

1 .  In  those  happy  days,  a  well-regulated  family  always  rose 
with  the  dawn,  dined  at  eleven,  and  went  to  bed  at  sundown. 
Dinner  was  invariably  a  private  meal,  and  the  fat  old  burghers 
showed  incontestable  symptoms  of  disapprobation  and  uneasiness 
at  being  surprised  by  a  visit  from  a  neighbor  on  such  occasions 

*  See  preceding  Exercise. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  509 

IJut,  though  our  worthy  ancestors  were  thus  singularly  averse  to 
giving  dinners,  yet  they  kept  up  the  social  bonds  of  intimacy 
by  occasional  banquetings,  called  tea-parties. 

2.  As  this  is  the  first  introduction  of  those  delectable  orgies, 
which  have  since  become  so  fashionable  in  this  city,  I  am  con- 
scious my  fair  readers  will  be  very  curious  to  receive  information 
on  the  subject.  Sorry  am  I  that  there  will  be  but  little,  in  my 
description,  calculated  to  excite  their  admiration.  I  can  neither 
delight  them  with  accounts  of  suffocating  crowds,  nor  brilliant 
drawing-rooms,  nor  towering  feathers,  nor  sparkling  diamonds, 
nor  immeasurable  trains.  I  can  detail  no  choice  anecdotes  of 
scandal,  for  in  those  primitive  times  the  simple  folk  were  either 
too  stupid  or  too  good-natured  to  pull  each  other's  characters  to 
pieces ;  nor  can  I  furnish  any  whimsical  anecdotes  of  brag ;  how 
one  lad^  cheated,  or  another  bounced  into  a  passion;  for,  as  yet, 
there  was  no  junto  of  dulcet  old  dowagers  who  met  to  win  each 
other's  money  and  lose  their  own  tempers  at  a  card-table. 

3.  These  fashionable  parties  were  generally  confined  to  the 
higher  classes,  or  noblesse — that  is  to  say,  such  as  kept  their 
own  cows  and  drove  their  own  wagons.  The  company  commonly 
assembled  at  three  o'clock,  and  went  away  about  six,  unless  it  wap 
in  winter  time,  when  the  fashionable  hours  were  a  little  earlier, 
that  the  ladies  might  get  home  before  dark.  I  do  not  find  that 
they  ever  treated  their  company  to  iced  creams,  jellies,  or  sylla- 
bubs, or  regaled  them  with  musty  almonds,  moldy  raisins,  or 
sour  oranges,  as  is  often  done  in  the  present  age  of  refinement. 
Our  ancestors  were  fond  of  more  sturdy,  substantial  fare.  The 
tea-table  was  crowned  with  a  huge  earthen  dish,  well  stored 
with  slices  of  fat  pork,  fried  brown,  cut  up  into  morsels,  and 
swimming  in  gravy. 

4.  The  company  being  seated  around  the  genial  board,  and 
each  furnished  with  a  fork,  evinced  their  dexterity  in  lanching 

•at  the  fattest  pieces  of  this  mighty  dish,  in  much  the  same 
manner  as  sailors  harpoon  porpoises  at  sea,  or  our  Indians  spear 
salmon  in  the  lakes.  Sometimes  the  table  was  graced  with 
immense  apple-pies,  or  saucers  full  of  preserved  peaches  and 
pftarsj  tut  it  was  always  sure  to  boast  of  an  enormous  dish  of 


610  SANDERS'     UNION     SERIES. 

balls  of  sweetened  dough  fried  in  hog's  fat,  and  called  dough- 
nuts ;  a  delicious  kind  of  cake,  at  present  scarce  known  in  thia 
city,  excepting  in  genuine  Dutch  families. 

5  The  tea  was  served  out  of  a  majestic  delft  tea-pot,  orna- 
mented with  paintings  of  fat  little  Dutch  shepherds  and  shep- 
herdesses, tending  pigs — with  boats  sailing  in  the  air,  and  houses 
built  in  the  clouds,  and  sundry  other  ingenious  Dutch  fantasies. 
The  beaus  distinguished  themselves  by  their  adroitness  in  re- 
plenishing this  pot  from  a  huge  copper  tea-kettle,  which  would 
have  made  the  pigmy  macaronies  of  these  degenerate  days  sweat 
merely  to  look  at  it.  To  sweeten  the  beverage,  a  lump  of  sugar 
was  laid  beside  each  cup,  and  the  company  alternately  nibbled 
and  sipped  with  great  decorum,  until  an  improvement  was  intro- 
duced by  a  shrewd  and  economic  old  lady,  which  was,  to  suspend 
a  large  lump  directly  over  the  tea-table  by  a  string  from  the 
ceiling,  so  that  it  could  be  swung  from  mouth  to  mouth — an 
ingenious  expedient,  which  is  still  kept  up  by  some  families  in 
Albany,  but  which  prevails,  without  exception,  in  Communipaw, 
Bergen,  Flat-Bush,  and  all  our  uncontaminated  Dutch  villages. 

6.  At  these  primitive  tea-parties  the  utmost  propriety  and 
dignity  of  deportment  prevailed.  No  flirting  nor  coquetting — 
no  gambling  of  old  ladies,  nor  hoyden  chattering  and  romping 
of  young  ones — no  self-satisfied  struttings  of  wealthy  gentlemen 
with  their  brains  in  their  pockets;  nor  amusing  conceits  and 
monkey  divertisements  of  smart  young  gentlemen  with  no  brains 
at  all. 

7.  The  parties  broke  up  without  noise,  and  without  confusion. 
They  were  carried  home  by  their  own  carriages — that  is  to  say, 
by  the  vehicles  nature  had  provided  them,  excepting  such  of 
the  wealthy  as  could  afford  to  keep  a  wagon.  The  gentlemen 
gallantly  attended  their  fair  ones  to  their  respective  abodes,  and 
took  leave  of  them  with  a  hearty  smack  at  the  door;  which,  as 
it  was  an  established  piece  of  etiquette,  done  in  perfect  simpli- 
city and  honesty  of  heart,  occasioned  no  scandal  at  that  time, 
nor  should  it  at  the  present — if  our  great-grandfathers  approved 
of  the  custom,  it  would  argue  a  great  wan*  of  reverence  in  theii 
depcendants  to  say  a  word  against  it. 


EHETORICAL    READER.  511 


EXERCISE  CLIIl. 


QUARREL  SCENE  BETWEEN  BRUTUS  AND  CASSIUS. 

SHAE8PEABE.* 

Cassius.  That  you  have  wronged  me  doth  appear  in  this : 
y^oii  have  condemned  and  noted  Lucius  Pella, 
For  taking  bribes  here  of  the  Sardians ; 
Wherein,  my  letters,  praying  on  his  side, 
Because  T  knew  the  man,  were  slighted  off. 

Brutits.  You  wronged  yourself,  to  write  in  such  a  case. 

Can.  In  such  a  time  as  this,  it  is  not  meet 
That  every  nice  offense  should  bear  his  comment. 

JBru.  Let  me  tell  you,  Cassius,  you  yourself 
Are  much  condemned  to  have  an  itching  palm ; 
To  sell  and  mart  your  offices  for  gold, 
To  undeservers. 

Cas.  I  an  itching  palm  ? 

You  know,  that  you  are  Brutus  that  speak  this, 
Or,  by  the  gods,  this  speech  were  else  your  last. 

Bru.  The  name  of  Cassius  honors  this  corruption, 
And  chastisement  doth,  therefore,  hide  his  head. 

Cas.  Chastisement! 

Bru.  Remember  March,  the  ides  of  March  remember. 
Did  not  great  Julius  bleed  for  justice'  sake  ? 
What  villain  touched  his  body,  that  did  stab, 
And  not  for  justice  ?     What,  shall  one  of  us, 
That  struck  the  foremost  man  of  all  this  world. 
But  for  supporting  robbers, — shall  we  now 
Contaminate  oui  fingers  with  base  bribes? 
And  sell  the  mighty  space  of  our  large  honors, 
For  so  much  trash  as  may  be  grasped  thus  ? — 
I  had  rather  be  a  dog,  and  bay  the  moon, 
Than  such  a  Roman. 

Oas.  Brutus,  bay  not  me, 

*  See  Exercise  XXVIIl. 


Dl2  SANDERS'     UNION    SERIES. 

I'll  not  endure  it :  you  forget  yourself, 
To  hedge  me  in ;  I  am  a  soldier,  I, 
Older  in  practice,  abler  than  yourself 
To  make  conditions. 

Bru.  Go  to ;  you're  not,  Cassius. 

Cas.  I  am. 

Bru.  I  say,  you  are  not. 

Cas.  Urge  me  no  more,  1  shall  forget  myself; 
Have  mind  upon  your  health,  tempt  me  no  further. 

Bru.  Away,  slight  man  ! 

Cas.  Is't  possible  ? 

Bru.  Hear  me,  for  I  will  speak. 
Must  I  give  way  and  room  to  your  rash  choler  ? 
Shall  I  be  frighted,  when  a  madman  stares  ? 

Cas.  0,  ye  gods  !  ye  gods  !  must  I  endure  all  this  ? 

Bru.  All  this  ?  ay,  more  :  Fret  till  your  proud  heart  breaks 
Go,  show  your  slaves  how  choleric  you  are, 
And  make  your  bondmen  tremble.     Must  I  budge  ? 
Must  I  observe  you  ?     Must  I  stand  and  crouch 
Under  your  testy  humor  ?     By  the  gods. 
You  shall  digest  the  venom  of  your  spleen. 
Though  it  do  split  you ;  for,  from  this  day  forth, 
I'll  use  you  for  my  mirth,  yea,  for  my  laughter, 
When  you  are  waspish. 

Cas,  Is  it  come  to  this  ? 

Bru.  You  say,  you  are  a  better  soldier : 
Let  it  appear  so ;  make  your  vaunting  true, 
And  it  shall  please  me  well :  for  mine  own  part, 
I  shall  be  glad  to  learn  of  noble  men. 

Cas    You  wrong  me  every  way ;  you  wrong  me,  Brutus , 
I  said,  an  elder  soldier,  not  a  better : 
Did  I  say,  better  ? 

Bru.  If  you  did,  I  care  not. 

Cai.  When  Caesar  lived,  he  durst  not  thus  have  moved  me 

Bru.  Peace,  peace ;  you  durst  not  so  have  tempted  him. 

Cas.  I  durst  not  ? 

Bvu.  No. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  513 

Cas.  What  ?  durst  not  tempt  him  ? 

Bru.  For  your  life,  you  durst  not.     ^ 

Gas.  Do  not  presume  too  much  upon  my  love  j 
r  may  do  that  I  shall  be  sorry  for. 

Bru.  You  have  done  that  you  should  be  sorry  for. 
There  is  no  terror,  Cassius,  in  your  threats ; 
For  I  am  armed  so  strong  m  honesty, 
That  they  pass  by  me  as  the  idle  wind, 
Which  I  respect  not.     I  did  send  to  you 
For  certain  sums  of  gold,  which  you  denied  me ; — 
For  I  can  raise  no  money  by  vile  means : 
By  Heaven,  I  had  rather  coin  my  heart, 
And  arop  my  blood  for  drachmas,  than  to  wring 
From  the  nard  hands  of  peasants  their  vile  trash, 
By  any  indirection.     I  did  send 
To  you  for  gold  to  pay  my  legions. 
Which  you  denied  me :  was  that  done  like  Cassius  ? 
Should  I  have  answered  Caius  Cassius  so  ? 
When  Marcus  Brutus  grows  so  covetous, 
To  lock  such  rascal  counters  from  his  friends, 
Be  ready,  gods,  with  all  your  thunderbolts, 
Dash  him  to  pieces  ! 

Gas.  I  denied  you  not. 

Bru.  You  did. 

Gas.  I  did  not : — he  was  but  a  fool, 

That  brought  my  answer  back.     Brutus  hath  rived  my  heart ' 
A  friend  should  bear  his  friend's  infirmities  j 
But  Brutus  makes  mine  greater  than  they  are. 

Bru.  I  do  not,  till  you  practice  them  on  me. 

Gas.   You  love  me  not. 

B  u,  I  do  not  like  your  faults. 

Gas.  A  friendly  eye  could  never  see  such  faults. 

Bru.  A  flatterer's  would  not,  though  they  do  appear 
As  huge  as  high  Olympus. 

Gas.  Come,  Antony,  and  young  Octavius,  come, 
Revenge  yourselves  alone  on  Cassius : 
22*  R 


i>14  SANDERS'    UNION     SERIES. 

For  Gassius  is  aweary  of  tl.e  world : 

Hated  by  one  he  loves ;  braved  by  his  brother , 

Ohecked  like  a  bondman;  all  his  faults  observed, 

Set  in  a  note-book,  learned  and  coaned  by  rote. 

To  cast  into  my  teeth.     O,  I  could  weep 

My  spirit  from  mine  eyes ! — There  is  my  dagger, 

And  here  my  naked  breast;  within,  a  heart 

Dsarer  than  Plutus'  mine,  richer  than  gold : 

If  that  thou  be'st  a  Roman,  take  it  forth  j 

I,  that  denied  thee  gold,  will  give  my  heart: 

Strike,  as  thou  didst  at  Caesar ;  for,  t  know, 

When  thou  didst  hate  him  worst,  thou  lovedst  him  better 

Than  ever  thou  lovedst  Cassius. 

Bru.  Sheathe  your  dagger : 

Be  angry  when  you  will,  it  shall  have  scope ; 
Do  what  you  will,  dishonor  shall  be  humor. 
O  Cassius,  you  are  yoked  with  a  lamb 
That  carries  anger,  as  the  flint  bears  fire ; 
Who,  much  enforced,  shows  a  hasty  spark, 
And  straight  is  cold  again ! 
'    Oas.  Hath  Cassius  lived 

To  be  but  mirth  and  laughter  to  his  Brutus, 
When  grief,  and  blood  ill-tempered  vexeth  him? 

Bru.  When  I  spoke  that,  I  was  ill-tempered  too. 

Cas.  Do  you  confess  so  much  ?     Give  me  your  hand. 

Bru.  And  my  heart  too. 

Cas.  0  Brutus  ! — 

Bru.  What's  the  matter  ? 

Cas.  Have  you  not  love  enough  to  bear  with  me, 
When  that  rash  humor,  which  my  mother  gave  me, 
Makes  me  forgetful  ? 

Bru.  Yes,  Cassius;  and,  henceforth, 

W^hen  you  are  over-earnest  with  your  Brutus, 
He'll  think  your  mother  chides,  and  leave  you  so. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  51R 


EXERCISE  CLIV. 

Thomas  de  Quincey  was  born  in  one  of  the  suburbs  of  Manchester,  in 
England,  in  the  year  1786.  His  childhood  was  passed  in  rural  seclusion. 
lu  the  year  1804,  while  on  a  visit  to  London,  he  had  recourse  to  opiim,  as  a 
relief  from  the  pains  of  rheumatism.  This  soon  came  to  be  a  custom,  and  the 
custom,  at  length,  got  to  be  a  confirmed  habit :  he  gathering,  or  seeming  to 
gather,  from  the  use  of  this  drug,  fresh  force,  clearness,  and  elasticity  of 
mind.  What  he  did,  and  v^hat  he  suffered  during  this  singular  "  state  of 
imbecility,"  as  he  well  enough  calls  it,  is  embraced  in  his  celebrated  work 
entitled  "The  Confessions  of  an  English  Opium  Eater."  We  give  below  an 
extract  from  this  remarkable  book.  "  Ail  his  works,"  says  a  critic  who  has 
taken  pains  to  gather  carefully  the  details  of  his  life,  "  show  a  wide  range  of 
learning  and  speculation,  a  delicate  and  subtle  critical  faculty,  and  a  felici- 
tous selection  of  words.  As  improvisations,  they  would  be  admirable  displays 
of  mental  power,  but  most  of  them  are  so  unartistically  constructed,  the  main 
idea  and  purjjose  being  lost  by  unceasing  digresaiona,  that  they  are  excellent 
only  in  fragments  and  passages." 

DREAM  OF  AN  OPIUM  EATER. 

DK   QXTINCET. 

1.  The  dream  commenced  with  a  music  which  now  I  often 
hear  in  dreams — a  music  of  preparation  and  of  awakening 
suspense;  a  music  like  the  opening  of  the  Coronation  Anthem, 
and  which,  like  that,  gave  the  feeling  of  a  vast  march — of 
infinite  cavalcades  filing  off — and  the  tread  of  innumerable 
armies.  The  morning  was  come  of  a  mighty  day — a  day  of 
crisis  and  of  final  hope  for  human  nature,  then  sufiering  some 
mysterious  eclipse,  and  laboring  in  some  dread  extremity. 
Somewhere,  I  knew  not  where — somehow,  I  knew  not  how — by 
some  beings,  I  knew  not  whom — a  battle,  a  strife,  an  agony  was 
conducting — was  evolving  like  a  great  drama  or  piece  of  music ; 
with  which  my  sympathy  was  the  more  insupportable,  from  ray 
confusion  as  to  its  place,  its  cause,  its  nature,  and  its  possible 
issue. 

2  T,  as  is  usual  in  dreams  (where,  of  necessity,  we  make  our. 
selves  central  to  every  movement),  had  the  power,  and  yet  had 
not  the  power  to  decide  it.  I  had  the  power,  if  I  could  raise 
myself,  to  will  it;   and  yet  again  had  not  the  power,  for  the 


516  SANDERS'     UNION     SERIES. 

weight  of  twenty  Atlantes*  was  upon  me,  or  the  oppression  of 
inexpiable  guilt.  "Deeper  than  ever  plummet  sounded,"  I  lay 
inactive.  Then,  like  a  chorus,  the  passion  deepened.  Some 
greater  interest  was  at  stake;  some  mightier  cause  than. ever  yet 
the  sword  had  pleaded  or  trumpet  had  proclaimed. 

o  Then  came  sudden  alarms,  hurrying  to  and  fro;  trepida- 
tions of  innumerable  fugitives,  I  knew  not  whether  from  the 
good  cause  or  the  bad ;  darkness  and  lights ;  tempest  and  human 
luCC? ;  and,  at  last,  with  the  sense  that  ajl  was  lost,  female  forms, 
and  the  features  that  were  worth  all  the  world  to  me,  and  but  a 
moment  allowed — and  clasped  hands,  and  heart-breaking  part- 
ings, and  then — everlasting  farewells  !  and  with  a  sigh,  such  as 
the  caves  of  hell  sighed  when  the  incestuous  mother  uttered  the 
abhorred  name  of  death,  the  sound  was  reverberated — everlast- 
ing farewells  !  and  again,  and  yet  again  reverberated — everlast- 
ing farewells ! 

And  I  awoke  in  struggles,  and  cried  aloud — ^'^  I  will  deep  no 
more  /" 


EXERCISE  CLV. 

FiTf-GREEifE  Halleck  was  born  in  Guilford,  Connecticut,  July  8th,  1790. 
The  earlier  part  of  his  life,  though  marked  by  occasional  attempts  at  poetry, 
was  mainly  occupied  in  commercial  and  financial  pursuits.  He  aided  his  late 
friend,  J.  Rodman  Drake,  whose  death  is  the  theme  of  one  of  his  most 
touching  pieces,  in  preparing  a  series  of  humorous  contributions  to  the 
columns  of  the  "New  York  Evening  Post."  In  1819  appeared  his  longest 
poem,  an  amusing  satire,  entitled  "  Fanny,"  which  falls  heavily,  though 
humorously,  on  the  foibles  and  follies  of  the  times.  In  1827  he  published  a 
volume  of  his  poems:  embracing,  among  others,  his  "Alnwick  Castle,"  and 
his  "Marco  Bozzaris,"  which  latter  originally  appeared  in  the  "New  York 
Review,"  and  is  by  far  the  most  popular  of  all  his  productions.  His  poems 
bear  the  impress  of  a  mind  exquisitely  sensitive  to  the  harmonies  of  verse, 
and  endowed  with  wonderful  versatility. 


♦  Atlas  (plural  Atlantes),  a  name  given  by  the  ancients  io  «  ofty 
roountain  in  northern  Africa,  and  still  applied  to  the  chain  in  that  region. 
Atlas,  according  to  the  old  mythology,  was  one  of  the  Titans,  who,  having 
made  war  upon  Jove,  was  changed  into  a  mountain  so  high  that  it  was  con 
ceived  that  the  heavens  rested  on  it,  and  thtis  that  Atlas  supported  the 
world  upon  his  shoulders. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  617 

MARCO  BOZZARIS.* 

nTZ-OBKEKB   HALUEOK 
I 

At  midnight,  in  his  guarded  tent, 

The  Turk  was  dreaming  of  the  hour 
When  Greece,  her  knee  in  suppliance  bent, 

Should  tremble  at  his  power  : 
In  dreams,  through  camp  and  court,  he  bore 
The  trophies  of  a  conqueror ; 

In  dreams  his  song  of  triumph  heard ; 
Then  wore  his  monarch's  signet-ring  : 
Then  pressed  that  monarch's  throne — a  king ; 
As  wild  his  thoughts,  and  gay  of  wing, 

As  Eden's  garden-bird. 

II. 
An  hour  passed  on — the  Turk  awoke ; 

That  bright  dream  was  his  last ; 
He  awoke — to  hear  his  sentry's  shriek, 
"  To  arms  !  they  come  !  the  Greek  !  the  Greek  !" 
He  woke — to  die  midst  flame  and  smoke, 
And  shout,  and  groan,  and  saber-stroke. 

And  death-shots  falling  thick  and  fast 
As  lightnings  from  the  mountain-cloud; 
And  heard,  with  voice  as  trumpet  loud, 

Bozzaris  cheer  his  band  : 
"  Strike — till  the  last  armed  foe  expires ; 
Strike — for  your  altars  and  your  fires ; 
Strike — for  the  green  graves  of  your  sires  j 

God — and  your  native  land  V 

III. 

They  fought — like  brave  men,  long  and  well ; 
They  piled  that  ground  with  Moslem  slain ; 

*  He  fell  in  an  attack  upon  the  Turkish  camp  at  Laspi,  the  site  of  the 
ancient  Platsea,  August  20th,  1823,  and  expired  in  the  moment  of  vic- 
tory. His  last  words  were:  "To  die  for  liberty  is  a  pleasure,  not  a 
pain  ' 


M8  SANDERS'     UNION     SERIES. 

They  conquered — but  Bozzaris  fell, 

Bleeding  at  every  vein. 
His  few  surviving  comrades  saw 
His  smile  when  rang  their  proud  hurrah, 

And  the  red  field  was  won : 
Then  saw  in  death  his  eyelids  close 
(Calmly,  as  to  a  night's  repose, 

Like  flowers  at  set  of  sun. 

IV. 

Oome  to  the  bridal  chamber,  Death ! 

Come  to  the  mother,  when  she  feels, 
For  the  first  time,  her  firstborn's  breath  j 

Come  when  the  blessed  seals 
.That  close  the  pestilence  are  broke, 
And  crowded  cities  wail  its  stroke ; 
Come  in  consumption's  ghastly  form. 
The  earthquake  shock,  the  ocean  storm, 
Come  when  the  heart  beats  high  and  warm, 

With  banquet-song,  and  dance,  and  wine  - 
And  thou  art  terrible — the  tear, 
The  groan,  the  knell,  the  pall,  the  bier; 
And  all  we  know,  or  dream,  or  fear 

Of  agony,  are  thine. 

V. 

But  to  the  hero,  when  his  sword 

Has  won  the  battle  for  the  free. 
Thy  voice  sounds  like  a  prophet's  word ; 
And,  in  its  hollow  tones,  are  heard 

The  thanks  of  millions  yet  to  be. 
Bozzaris  !  with  the  storied  brave 

Greece  nurtured  in  her  glory's  time. 
Rest  thee — there  is  no  prouder  grave, 

Even  in  her  own  proud  clime. 

We  tell  thy  doom  without  a  sigh ; 
For  thou  art  Freedom's  now,  and  Fame's, 
One  of  the  few,  the  immortal  names, 

That  were  not  born  to  die. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  619 


EXERCISE  CLVI. 

Robert  Hall  was  a  distinguished  preacher  of  the  Baptist  denomination. 
He  was  born  in  Leicestershire,  England,  May  2d,  1764,  and  died  in  Bristol, 
February  21st,  1831.  He  was  a  person  of  wonderful  powers  even  from  his 
youth;  and  his  whole  subsequent  life  was  but  a  fulfillment  of  the  pledge 
afiv  rded  by  his  early  career.     The  following  is  from  an 

ADDRESS   TO    THE    BRISTOL  VOLUNTEERS   IN   PROSPECT   OF 
AN  INVASION  BY  THE  FRENCH. 

ROBERT   HALL. 

1.  The  inundation  of  lawless  power,  after  covering  the  rest 
of  Europe,  threatens  England ;  and  we  are  placed  in  the  only- 
aperture  where  it  can  be  successfully  repelled — in  the  Ther- 
mopylae of  the  universe.  Go,  then,  ye  defenders  of  your 
country,  accompanied  with  every  auspicious  omen;  advance 
with  alacrity  into  the  field,  where  Grod  himself  musters  the 
hosts  of  war.  Religion  is  too  much  interested  in  your  success, 
not  to  lend  you  her  aid ;  she  will  shed  over  your  enterprise  her 
selectest  influence.  While  you  are  engaged  in  the  field,  many 
will  repair  to  the  closet,  many  to  the  sanctuary;  the  faithful 
of  every  name  will  employ  that  prayer  which  has  power  with 
God ;  the  feeble  hands  which  are  unequal  to  any  other  weapon, 
will  grasp  the  sword  of  the  Spirit:  and  from  myriads  of  humble, 
contrite  hearts,  the  voice  of  intercession,  supplication,  and 
weeping  will  mingle  in  its  ascent  to  Heaven  with  the  shouts 
of  arms. 

2.  And  Thou,  sole  lluler  among  the  children  of  men,  to  whom 
the  shields  of  the  earth  belong,  gird  on  Thy  sword,  Thou  most 
Mighty :  go  forth  with  our  hosts  in  the  day  of  battle  !  Impart, 
in  addition  to  their  hereditory  valor,  that  confidence  of  success 
which  springs  from  Thy  presence  !  Pour  into  their  hearts  the 
spirit  of  departed  heroes  !  Inspire  them  with  Thine  own ;  and, 
while  led  by  Thine  hand,  and  fighting  under  Thy  banners,  open 
Th  )u  their  eyes  to  behold  in  every  valley,  and  in  every  plain, 
what  the  prophet  beheld  by  the  same  illumination,  chariots  of 
fire  and  horses  of  fire!  Then  shall  the  strong  man  be  as  tow, 
and  the  maker  of  it,  as  a  spark  ;  and  they  shall  burn  together, 
and  none  shall  quench  them. 


520  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES. 


EXERCISE   CLVII. 

Oeorge  Bancroft  was  born  at  Worcester,  Massachusetts,  on  the  3d 
of  October,  1800.  After  graduating,  in  1817,  at  Harvard  College,  he  went  to 
Europe,  and  there,  under  the  best  professors,  in  every  department,  pursued  a 
comprehensive  course  of  study,  which  he  had  marked  out  for  himself  in  the 
future.  In  1823  he  rerurned,  and,  after  spending  one  year,  as  a  tutor,  in 
college,  opened,  in  ;onnection  with  another  person,*  the  "Round  Hill  School," 
at  Northampton,  with  the  worthy  object  of  raising  the  standard  of  preparatory 
instruction  in  this  country.  In  1826  he  began  his  political  career,  and,  since 
that  period,  has  discharged,  with  distinguished  fidelity,  the  duties  of  several 
highly  important  public  offices.  During  all  tlfis  time,  however,  he  has  been 
steadily  engaged  on  the  great  work  of  his  life,  his  "  History  of  the  United 
States,"  of  which  six  volumes  have  already  been  published.  Concerning  this 
work  it  has  been  well  remarked  that  "it  is  written  in  a  style  marked  by 
singular  elaborateness,  compactness,  and  scholarly  grace,  and  is  esteemed 
one  of  the  noblest  monuments  of  American  literature." 

The  following  vivid  picture  of  the  condition  of  things  along  the  banks 
of  the  Hudson  river,  when  first  visited  by  Henry  Hudson,  in  1609,  with  the 
wonderful  contrast  afforded  by  the  present  aspect  of  matters  in  the  same 
region,  is  one  of  Mr.  Bancroft's  best  efforts  in  the  way  of  description. 

WONDERFUL  CONTRAST. 

aEORQE   BANCROFT. 

1.  Somber  forests  shed  a  melancholy  grandeur  over  the  use- 
less magnificence  of  nature,  and  hid,  in  their  deep  shades,  the 
rich  soil  which  the  sun  had  never  warmed.  No  ax  had  leveled 
the  giant  progeny  of  the  crowded  groves,  in  which  the  fantastic 
forms  of  withered  limbs,  that  had  been  blasted  and  riven  by 
lightning,  contrasted  strangely  with  the  verdant  ft-eshness  of  a 
younger  growth  of  branches. 

2.  The  wanton  grape-vine,  seeming  by  its  own  power  to  have 
sprung  from  the  earth,  and  to  have  fastened  its  leafy  coils  on 
the  top  of  the  tallest  forest-tree,  swung  in  the  air  with  every 
breeze,  like  the  loosened  shrouds  of  a  ship.  Trees  might  every- 
where be  seen  breaking  from  their  root  in  the  marshy  soil,  and 
threatening  to  fall  with  the  first  rude  gust  j  while  the  ground 
was  strewn  with  the  ruins  of  former  forests,  over  which  a  pro- 
fusion of  wild  flowers  wasted  their  freshness  in  mockery  of  the 
gloom. 

*  Joseph  Q.  Cogswell,  late  Librarian  of  the  Astor  Library,  New  York 
city 


RHETORICAL    READER.  .  521 

8.  Reptiles  sported  in  the  stagnant  pools,  or  crawled  unharmed 
over  piles  of  moldering  trees.  The  spotted  deer  couched  among 
the  thickets;  but  not  to  hide,  for  there  was  no  pursuer;  and 
there  were  none  but  wild  animals  to  crop  the  uncut  herbage  of 
the  productive  prairies.  Silence  reigned,  broken,  it  may  have 
been,  by  the  flight  of  land  birds  or  the  flapping  of  water-fowl, 
and  rendered  more  dismal  by  the  howl  of  beasts  of  prey. 

4.  The  streams,  not  yet  limited  to  a  channel,  spread  over  sand- 
it  ars,  tufted  with  copses  of  willow,  or  waded  through  wastes  of 
reeds ;  or  slowly  but  surely  undermined  the  groups  of  sycamores 
that  grew  by  their  side.  The  smaller  brooks  spread  out  their 
sedgy  swamps,  that  were  overhung  by  clouds  of  mosquitoes; 
masses  of  decaying  vegetation  fed  the  exhalations  with  the  seeds 
of  pestilence,  and  made  the  balmy  air  of  the  summer's  evening 
as  deadly  as  it  seemed  grateful.  Vegetable  life  and  death  were 
mingled  hideously  together.  The  horrors  of  corruption  frowned 
on  the  fruitless  fertility  of  uncultivated  nature. 

5.  And  man,  the  occupant  of  the  soil,  was  wild  as  the  savage 
scene,  in  harmony  with  the  rude  nature  by  which  he  was  sur- 
rounded ;  a  vagrant  over  the  continent,  in  constant  warfare  with 
his  fellow  man  ;  the  bark  of  the  birch  his  canoe ;  strings  of  shells 
his  ornaments,  his  record,  and  his  coin ;  the  roots  of  the  forest 
among  his  resources  for  food ;  his  knowledge  in  architecture 
surpassed,  both  in  strength  and  durability,  by  the  skill  of  the 
beaver ;  bended  saplings  the  beams  of  his  house ;  the  branches 
and  rind  of  trees  its  roof ;  drifts  of  forest  leaves  his  couch;  mats 
of  bulrushes  his  protection  against  the  winter's  cold ;  his  religion 
the  adoration  of  nature ;  his  morals  the  promptings  of  undis- 
ciplined instinct ;  disputing  with  the  wolves  and  bears  the  lord- 
ship of  the  soil,  and  dividing  with  the  squirrel  the  wild  fruits 
with  which  the  universal  woodlands  abounded. 

6.  How  changed  is  the  scene  from  that  on  which  Hudson 
gazed  !  The  earth  glows  with  the  colors  of  civilization ;  the 
banks  of  the  streams  are  enameled  with  richest  grasses ;  wood- 
lands and  cultivated  fields  are  harmoniously  blended ;  the  birds 
of  spring  find  their  delight  in  orchards  and  trim  gardens, 
variegated  with  choicest   plants   from    every  temperate    zone; 


622  SANDERS'     UNION     SERIES. 

while  the  brilliant  flowers  of  the  tropics  bloom  from  the  windows 
of  the  green-house  and  the  saloon. 

1.  The  yeoman,  living  like  a  good  neighbor  near  the  fields  he 
cultivates,  glories  in  the  fruitful ness  of  the  valleys,  and  counts, 
with  honest  exultation,  the  flocks  and  herds  that  browse  in 
safety  on  the  hills.  The  thorn  has  given  way  to  the  rosebush ; 
'he  cultivated  vine  clambers  over  rocks  where  the  brood  of  ser- 
pents used  to  nestle ;  while  Industry  smiles  at  the  changes  she 
has  wrought,  and  inhales  the  bland  air  which  now  has  health  on 
its  wings. 

8.  And  man  is  still  in  harmony  with  nature,  which  he  has 
subdued,  cultivated,  and  adorned.  For  him  the  rivers  that  flow 
to  remotest  climes,  mingle  their  waters  ;  for  him  the  lakes  gain 
new  outlets  to  the  ocean;  for  him  the  arch  spans  the  flood,  and 
science  spreads  iron  pathways  to  the  recent  wilderness;  for  him 
the  hills  yield  no  the  shining  marble  and  the  enduring  granite  , 
for  him  the  for'^sts  of  the  interior  come  down  in  immense  rafts; 
for  him  the  mTtsof  the  city  gather  the  produce  of  every  clime, 
and  libraries  collect  the  works  of  genius  of  every  language  and 
every  age. 

9.  The  passions  of  society  are  chastened  into  purity;  manners 
are  made  benevolent  by  civilization;  and  the  virtue  of  the 
country  is  the  guardian  of  its  peace.  Science  investigates  the 
powers  of  every  plant  and  mineral,  to  find  medicines  for  disease; 
schools  of  surgery  rival  the  establishments  of  the  old  world. 

10.  An  active  daily  press,  vigilant  from  party  interests,  free 
even  to  dissoluteness,  watches  the  progress  of  society,  and  com- 
municates every  fact  that  can  interest  humanity;  the  genius  of 
letters  begins  to  unfold  his  powers  in  the  warm  sunshine  of 
public  favor.  And,  while  idle  curiosity  may  take  its  walk  in 
shady  avenues  by  the  ocean  side,  commerce  pushes  its  wharves 
into  the  sea,  olocks  up  the  wide  rivers  with  its  fleets,  and,  send- 
ing its  ships,  the  pride  of  naval  architecture,  to  every  clime, 
defies  every  wind,  outrides  ever}  tempest,  and  invades  every 

^Eone. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  523 


EXERCISE  CLVIII. 


Ja.he»  Thomson  was  born  near  Kelso,  in  Scotland,  in  the  year  1700,  and 
died  in  the  year  1748.  In  his  eighteenth  year  or  thereabout,  being  in  rather 
straitened  circumstances,  he  left  Scotland,  and  went  to  London  to  try  his 
foitune.  Here,  after  a  while,  he  found  favor,  first  as  a  tutor,  then  as  an 
autbcr,  and  afterwards  as  the  incumbent  of  several  small  sinecure  offices;  al' 
which  gave  him  in  the  end  comparative  riches.  His  distinguishing  work,  as 
an  author  is  the  "Seasons."  "So  true  and  beautiful  are  the  descriptions 
in  this  poem,"  says  an  appreciative  critic,  "and  so  entirely  do  they  harmonizo 
with  those  fresh  feelings  and  glowing  impulses  which  all  would  wish  to 
cherish,  that  a  love  of  nature  seems  to  be  synonymous  with  a  love  of  Thomson." 
Wo  give  the  following  beautiful  episode,  as  a  specimen  of  his  delicate  touch 
in  the  portraiture  of  character. 

THE  STORY  OF  LAVINIA. 

Tnoxson 
I. 

The  lovely  young  Lavinia  once  had  friends ; 
And  Fortune  smiled,  deceitful,  on  her  birth ; 
For,  in  her  helpless  years  deprived  of  all. 
Of  every  stay,  save  innocence  and  Heaven,  ' 

She,  with  her  widowed  mother,  feeble,  old. 
And  poor,  lived  in  a  cottage,  far  retired 
Among  the  windings  of  a  woody  vale ; 
By  solitude  and  deep  surrounding  shades, 
But  more  by  bashful  modesty,  concealed. 
Together  thus  they  shunned  the  cruel  scorn 
Which  virtue,  sunk  to  poverty,  would  meet. 


Her  form  was  fresher  than  the  morning  rose 
When  the  dew  wets  its  leaves ;  unstained  and  pure, 
As  is  the  lily,  or  the  mountain  snow. 
The  modest  virtues  mingled  in  her  eyes, 
Still  on  the  ground  dejected,  darting  all 
Their  humid  beams  into  the  blooming  flowers : 
Or  when  the  mournful  tale  her  mother  told. 
Of  what  her  faithless  fortune  promised  once, 
Thrilled  in  her  thought,  they,  like  the  dewy  star 
Of  evening,  shone  in  tears.     A  native  grace 


5^4  SANDERS'     UNION    SERIES. 

Sat  fair-proportioned  on  her  polished  limbs, 
\^ailed  in  a  simple  robe,  their  best  attire, 
Beyond  the  pomp  of  dress ;  for  loveliness 
Needs  not  the  foreign  aid  of  ornament, 
But  is,  when  unadorned,  adorned  the  most. 

in. 

Thoughtless  of  beauty,  she  was  beauty^s  self, 
Recluse  amid  the  close  embowering  woods. 
As  in  the  hollow  breast  of  Apennine, 
Beneath  the  shelter  of  encircling  hills, 
A  myrtle  rises,  far  from  human  eye. 
And  breathes  its  balmy  fi-agrance  o'er  the  wildj 
So  flourished  blooming,  and  unseen  by  all. 
The  sweet  Lavinia;  till,  at  length,  compelled 
By  strong  Necessity's  supreme  command. 
With  smiling  patience  in  her  looks,  she  went 
To  glean  Palemon's  fields.     The  pride  of  swains 
Palemon  was,  the  generous,  and  the  rich; 
Who  led  the  rural  life  in  all  its  joy 
And  elegance,  such  as  Arcadian  song 
Transmits  from  ancient  uncorrupted  times. 

IV. 
He  then,  his  fancy  with  autumnal  scenes 
Amusing,  chanced  beside  his  reaper-train 
To  walk,  when  poor  Lavinia  drew  his  eye ; 
Unconscious  of  her  power,  and  turning  quick 
With  unafi^ected  blushes  from  his  gaze : 
He  saw  her  charming,  but  he  saw  not  half 
The  charms  her  downcast  modesty  concealed. 
And  thus  in  secret  to  his  soul  he  sighed : 

V. 
"  She  looks,  methinks, 
Of  old  Acasto's  line ;  and  to  my  mind 
Recalls  that  patron  of  my  happy  life, 
From  whom  my  liberal  fortune  took  its  rise; 


RHETORICAL    READER.  525 

Now  to  the  dust  gone  down  j  his  houses,  lands, 
And  once  fair-spreading  family,  dissolved. 
'Tis  said  that,  in  some  lone  obscure  retreat. 
Urged  by  remembrance  sad,  and  decent  pride. 
Far  from  those  scenes  which  knew  their  better  days, 
His  aged  widow  and  his  daughter  live, 
Whom  yet  my  fruitless  search  could  never  find. 
Romantic  wish  !  would  this  the  daughter  were  !" 

VI. 
When,  strict  inquiring,  from  herself  he  found 
She  was  the  same,  the  daughter  of  his  friend, 
Of  bountiful  Acasto,  who  can  speak 
The  mingled  passions  that  surprised  his  heart, 
And  through  his  nerves  in  shivering  transport  ran  ? 
Then  blazed  his  smothered  flame,  avowed,  and  boldj 
"  And  art  thou,  then,  Acasto's  dear  remains  ? 
She,  whom  my  restless  gratitude  has  sought. 
So  long  in  vain  ?     Oh,  heavens  !  the  very  same, 
The  softened  image  of  my  noble  friend, 
Alive  his  every  look,  his  every  feature. 
More  elegantly  touched.     Sweeter  than  Spring ! 
Thou  sole  surviving  blossom  from  the  root 
That  nourished  up  my  fortune  !     Say,  ah,  where, 
In  what  sequestered  desert  hast  thou  drawn 
The  kindest  aspect  of  delighted  Heaven  ? 
Into  such  beauty  spread,  and  blown  so  fair; 
Though  poverty's  cold  wind,  and  crushing  rain, 
Beat  keen  and  heavy  on  thy  tender  years  ? 

VII. 
"  OH,  let  me  now  into  a  richer  soil 
Transplant  thee  safe !  where  vernal  suns  and  showers 
DiflFuse  their  warmest,  largest  influence  ; 
And  of  my  garden  be  the  pride  and  joy ! 
Ill  it  befits  thee,  oh,  it  ill  befits 
Acasto's  daughter,  his  whose  open  stores. 
Though  vast,  were  little  to  his  ample  heart, 


526  SANDERS'     UNION     SERIES. 

The  father  of  a  country,  thus  to  pick 
The  very  refuse  of  those  harvest-fields, 
Whicli  from  his  bounteous  friendship  I  enjoy. 
Then  throw  that  shameful  pittance  from  thy  hand, 
The  fields,  the  master,  all,  my  fair,  are  thine. 
If  to  the  various  blessings  which  thy  house 
Has  on  me  lavished,  thou  wilt  add  that  bliss, 
That  dearest  bliss,  the  power  of  blessing  theo !" 


EXERCISE  CLIX. 

Apos'teophe,  literally,  a  turning  away  from  (Apo,  from,  and  Strophe, 
a  turning),  is  the  name  applied  to  a  digression  in  discourse,  where  the 
speaker  suddenly  addresses  some  one  who  is  dead  or  absent,  as  if  alive 
or  present;  or  some  inanimate  object,  as  though  havinp'  the  qualities 
that  belong  to  intelligent  beings. 

APOSTROPHE  TO  THE  OCEAN. 

TrtRD  BTROK.* 
I. 

Koll  on,  thou  deep  and  dark  blue  Ocean — roll  I 
Ten  thousand  fleets  sweep  over  thee  in  vain  j 
Man  marks  the  earth  with  ruin, — his  control 
Stops  with  the  shore ;  upon  the  watery  plain 
The  wrecks  are  all  thy  deed,  nor  doth  remain 
A  shadow  of  man's  ravage,  save  his  own, 
When  for  a  moment,  like  a  drop  of  rain. 
He  sinks  into  thy  depths  with  bubbling  groan — 
Without  a  grave,  unknelled,  uncofl&ned,  and  unknown. 

II. 
His  steps  are  not  upon  thy  paths, — thy  fields 
Are  not  a  sport  for  him, — thou  dost  arise 
And  shake  him  from  thee ;  the  vile  strength  he  wields 
For  earth's  destruction,  thou  dost  all  despise, 

*  See  next  Exercise. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  527 

Spurning  him  from  thy  bosom  to  the  skies, 
And  send'st  him,  shivering  in  thy  playful  spray, 
And  howling  to  his  gods,  where  haply  lies 
His  petty  hope  in  some  near  port  or  bay, 
And  dashest  him  again  to  earth  :  there  let  him  lay. 

III. 
The  armaments  which  thunderstrike  the  walls 
Of  rock-built  cities,  bidding  nations  quake. 
And  monarchs  tremble  in  their  capitals, 
The  oak  leviathans,  whose  huge  ribs  make 
Their  clay  creator  the  vain  title  take 
Of  lord  of  thee,  and  arbiter  of  war : 
These  are  thy  toys,  and,  as  the  snowy  flake, 
They  melt  into  the  yeast  of  waves,  which  mai 
Alike  the  Armada's  pride,  or  spoils  of  Trafalgar 

IV. 

Thy  shores  are  empires,  changed  in  all  save  the<5— 
Assyria,  Greece,  Rome,  Carthage,  what  are  they  ? 
Thy  waters  wasted  them  while  they  were  free, 
And  many  a  tyrant  since ;  their  shores  obey 
The  stranger,  slave,  or  savage ;  their  decay 
Has  dried  up  realms  to  deserts :  not  so  thou ; 
Unchangeable  save  to  thy  wild  waves'  play. 
Time  writes  no  wrinkle  on  thine  azure  brow: 
Such  as  creation's  dawn  beheld,  thou  rollest  now. 

V. 

Thou  glorious  mirror,  where  the  Almighty's  form 
Glasses  itself  in  tempests ;  in  all  time 
Calm  or  convulsed — in  breeze,  or  gale,  or  storm, 
Icing  the  pole,  or  in  the  torrid  clime 
Dark-heaving  :  boundless,  endless,  and  sublime — 
The  image  of  Eternity — the  throne 
Of  the  Invisible ',  even  from  out  thy  slime 
The  monsters  of  the  deep  are  made ;  each  zone 
Obeys  thee ;  thou  goest  forth,  dread,  fathomless,  alone 


{>28  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES. 

VI. 

And  I  have  loved  thee,  Ocean !  and  my  joy 
Of  youthful  sports  was  on  thy  breast  to  be 
Borne,  like  thy  bubbles,  onward  :  from  a  boy 
I  wantoned  with  thy  breakers — they  to  me 
Were  a  delight ;  and,  if  the  freshening  sea 
Made  them  a  terror — 'twas  a  pleasing  fear ; 
For  I  was  as  it  were  a  child  of  thee. 
And  trusted  to  thy  billows  far  and  near, 
And  laid  my  hand  upon  thy  mane — as  I  do  here 


EXERCISE  CLX. 

George  Gordon  Byron  (Lord  Byron)  was  bom  in  London,  January  22d, 
1788,  and  died  at  Missolonghi,  in  Greece,  AprU  19th,  1824.  In  his  nineteentli 
year,  on  leaving  Cambridge  University,  where  his  course  had  been  marked  by 
an  intractable  disposition,  he  commenced  his  career  as  an  author  by  publishing 
the  "  Hours  of  Idleness."  It  was  criticized  with  great  severity  by  the  Edin- 
burgh Review,  to  which  attack  he  replied  with  still  greater  severity  in  a  caus- 
tic satire,  entitled  "  English  Bards  and  Scotch  Reviewers."  His  life,  after 
this,  was  marked  by  great  misfortunes,  occasioned  chiefly  by  his  own  wild 
and  wanton  conduct ;  but  it  was  distinguished  by  a  series  of  political  produc- 
tions which  have  been  more  admired  and  more  condemned  than  those,  per- 
haps, of  any  other  writer,  whether  living  or  dead.  His  strange  lot,  and  his 
Btranger  career,  are  admirably  sketched  in  the  present  Exercise. 


SKETCH  OF  LORD  BYRON. 

MACAITLAT. 

1.  The  pretty  fable  by  which  the  Duchess  of  Orleans  illus- 
trates the  character  of  her  son  the  regent,  might,  with  little 
change,  be  applied  to  Byron.  All  the  fairies,  save  one,  had 
been  bidden  to  his  cradle.  All  the  gossips  had  been  profuse  of 
their  gifts.  One  had  bestowed  nobility,  another  genius,  a  third 
beauty.  The  malignant  elf  who  had  been  uninvited,  came  last, 
and,  unable  to  reverse  what  her  sisters  had  done  for  their  favor- 
ite, had  mi  zed  up  a  curse  with  every  blessing. 

2.  In  the  rank  of  Lord  Byron,  in  his  understanding,  in  hia 
character,  in  his  very  person,  there  was  a  strange  union  of  oppo- 


RHETORICAL    READER.  529 

site  extremes.  He  was  bora  to  all  that  men  covet  or  admire 
But,  in  every  one  of  those  eminent  advantages  which  he  pos- 
sessed over  others,  there  was  mingled  something  of  misery  and 
debasement.  He  was  sprung  from  a  house,  ancient,  indeed,  and 
noble,  but  degraded  and  impoverished  by  a  series  of  crimes  and 
follies,  which  had  attained  a  scandalous  publicity. 

3  The  kinsman  whom  he  succeeded,  had  died  poor,  and, 
but  for  merciful  judges,  would  have  died  upon  the  gallows. 
The  young  peer  had  great  intellectual  powers ;  yet  there  was  an 
unsound  part  in  his  mind.  He  had  naturally  a  generous  and 
tender  heart  j  but  his  temper  was  wayward  and  irritable.  He 
had  a  head  which  statuaries  loved  to  copy,  and  a  foot,  the  defor- 
mity of  which  the  beggars  in  the  streets  mimicked.  Distin- 
guished, at  once,  by  the  strength  and  by  the  weakness  of  his 
intellect,  affectionate,  yet  perverse,  a  poor  lord,  and  a  handsome 
cripple,  he  required,  if  ever  man  required,  the  firmest  and  the 
most  judicious  training. 

4.  But,  capriciously  as  nature  had  dealt  with  him,  the  relative 
to  whom  the  office  of  forming  his  character  was  intrusted,  was 
more  capricious  still.  She  passed  from  paroxysms  of  rage,  to 
paroxysms  of  fondness.  At  one  time  she  stifled  him  with  her 
caresses ;  at  another  time  she  insulted  his  deformity.  He  came 
into  the  world,  and  the  world  treated  him  as  his  mother  treated 
him — sometimes  with  kindness,  sometimes  with  severity,  never 
with  justice.  It  indulged  him  without  discrimination,  and  pun- 
ished him  without  discrimination.  He  was  truly  a  spoiled  child, 
not  merely  the  spoiled  child  of  his  parents,  but  the  spoiled  child 
of  nature,  the  spoiled  child  of  fortune,  the  spoiled  child  of  fame, 
the  spoiled  child  of  society. 

5.  His  first  poems  were  received  with  a  contempt  which,  feeble 
as  they  were,  they  did  not  absolutely  deserve.  The  poem  which 
he  published  on  his  return  from  his  travels,  was,  on  the  other 
hand,  extolled  far  above  its  merits.  At  twenty-four,  he  found 
himself  on  the  highest  pinnacle  of  literary  fame,  with  Scott, 
Wordsworth,  Southey,  and  a  crowd  of  other  distinguished  writers 
beneath  his  feet.  There  is  scarcely  an  instance  in  history  of  so 
sudden  a  rise  to  so  dizzy  an  eminence. 

23  6R 


630  SANDERS'     UNION    SERIES. 

6.  Everything  that  could  stimulate,  and  everything  that  could 
gratify  the  strongest  propensities  of  our  nature — the  gaze  of  a 
hundred  drawing-rooms,  the  acclamations  of  the  whole  nation, 
the  applause  of  applauded  men,  the  love  of  the  loveliest  women 
— all  this  world,  and  all  the  glory  of  it,  were,  at  once,  oflFercd  to 
a  young  man,  to  whom  nature  had  given  violent  passions,  and 
whom  education  had  never  taught  to  control  them. 

7.  He  had  been  guilty  of  the  offense,  which,  of  all  offenses, 
is  punished  most  severely ;  he  had  been  over-praised ;  he  had 
excited  too  warm  an  interest;  and  the  public,  with  its  usual 
justice,  chastised  him  for  its  own  folly.  The  attachments  of 
the  multitude  bear  no  small  resemblance  to  those  of  the  wanton 
enchantress  in  the  Arabian  Tales,  who,  when  the  forty  days  of 
her  fondness  were  over,  was  not  content  with  dismissing  her 
lovers,  but  condemned  them  to  expiate,  in  loathsome  shapes,  and 
under  severe  punishments,  the  crime  of  having  once  pleased  her 
too  well. 

8.  The  obloquy  which  Byron  had  to  endure  was  such  as  might 
well  have  shaken  a  more  constant  mind.  The  newspapers  were 
filled  with  lampoons.  The  theaters  shook  with  execrations.  He 
was  excluded  from  circles  where  he  had  lately  been  the  observed 
of  all  observers.  All  those  creeping  things  that  riot  in  the 
decay  of  nobler  natures,  hastened  to  their  repast ;  and  they  were 
right;  they  did  after  their  kind.  It  is  not  every  day  that  the 
savage  envy  of  aspiring  dunces  is  gratified  by  the  agonies  of 
such  a  spirit,  and  the  degradation  of  such  a  name. 

9.  The  unhappy  man  left  his  country  forever.  The  howl  ot 
contumely  followed  him  across  the  sea,  up  the  Rhine,  over  the 
Alps;  it  gradually  waxed  fainter;  it  died  away.  Those  who  had 
raised  it  began  to  ask  each  other  what,  after  all,  was  the  matter 
about  which  they  had  been  so  clamorous;  and  wished  to  invite 
back  the  criminal  whom  they  had  just  chased  from  them.  Hia 
poetry  became  more  popular  than  it  had  ever  been;  and  his 
complaints  were  read  with  tears  by  thousands  and  tens  of  thou- 
sands who  had  never  seen  his  face.  He  had  fixed  his  home  on 
the  shores  of  the  Adriatic.  He  plunged  into  wild  and  desperate 
excesses     His  health  sunk  under  the  effects  of  his  intemperance 


B.HETORICAL    READER.  &31 

His  verse  lost  much  of  the  energy  and  condensation  which  had 
distinguished  it.  But  he  would  not  resign  without  a  struggle. 
A  new  dream  of  ambition  arose  before  him — to  be  the  center  of 
a  literary  party.  The  plan  failed,  and  failed  ignominiously. 
Angry  with  himself,  angry  with  his  coadjutors,  he  relinquished 
it,  and  turned  to  another  project,  the  last  and  the  noblest  of 
hi3  life 

10.  A  nation,  once  the  first  among  the  nations,  pre-eminent 
IP  knowledge,  pre-eminent  in  military  glory,  the  cradle  of  phi- 
l.^ophy,  of  eloquence,  and  of  the  fine  arts,  had  been  for  ages 
bowed  down  under  a  cruel  yoke.  All  the  vices  which  tyranny 
generates — the  abject  vices  which  it  generates  in  those  who 
submit  to  it — the  ferocious  vices  which  it  generates  in  those 
who  struggle  against  it — had  deformed  the  character  of  that 
miserable  race. 

11.  The  valor  which  had  won  the  great  battle  of  humac 
civilization,  which  had  saved  Europe,  s^d  subjugated  Asia^ 
lingered  only  among  pirates  and  robbers.  The  ingenuity,  once 
so  conspicuously  displayed  in  every  department  of  physical  and 
moral  science,  had  been  depraved  into  a  timid  and  servile 
cunning.  On  a  sudden  this  degraded  people  had  risen  on  their 
oppressors.  Discountenanced  or  betrayed  by  the  surrounding 
potentates,  they  had  found  in  themselves  something  of  that 
which  might  well  supply  the  place  of  all  foreign  assistance — 
something  of  the  energy  of  their  fathers. 

12.  As  a  man  of  letters.  Lord  Byron  could  not  but  be  in- 
terested in  the  event  of  this  contest.  His  political  opinions, 
though,  like  all  his  opinions,  unsettled,  leaned  strongly  towards 
the  side  of  liberty.  He  had  assisted  the  Italian  insurgents  with 
his  purse ;  and,  if  their  struggle  against  the  Austrian  govern- 
ment had  been  prolonged,  would  probably  have  assisted  them 
with  his  sword. 

13.  But  to  Greece  he  was  attached  by  peculiar  ties.  He  had, 
when  young,  resided  in  that  country.  Much  of  his  most  splen- 
did and  popular  poetry  had  been  inspired  by  its  scenery  and  by 
its  history.  Sick  of  inaction,  degraded  in  his  own  eyes  by  his 
private  vices  and  by  his  literary  failures,  pining  for  untried 


532  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES. 

excitement  and  honorable  distinction,  he  carried  his  exhaustoil 
body  and  his  wounded  spirit  to  the  Grecian  camp. 

14.  His  conduct,  in  his  new  situation,  showed  so  much  vigor 
and  good  sense  as  to  justify  us  in  beHeving  that,  if  his  Ufe  had 
been  prolonged,  he  might  have  distinguished  himself  as  a  sol- 
dier and  a  politician.  But  pleasure  and  sorrow  had  done  the 
work  of  seventy  years  upon  his  delicate  frame.  The  hand  of 
death  was  on  himj  he  knew  it;  and  the  only  wish  which  he 
uttered,  was  that  he  might  die  sword  in  hand. 

15.  This  was  denied  to  him.  Anxiety,  exertion,  exposure, 
and  those  fatal  stimulants  which  had  become  indispensable  to 
him,  soon  stretched  him  on  a  sick-bed,  in  a  strange  land,  amidst 
strange  faces,  without  one  human  being  that  he  loved  near  him. 
There,  at  thirty-six,  the  most  celebrated  Englishman  of  the 
nineteenth  century  closed  his  briUiant  and  miserable  career. 


EXERCISE  CLXI. 

Henry  Ward  Beecher,  the  well  known  minister  of  Plymouth  Churca, 
Brooklyn,  New  York,  was  born  in  Litchfield,  Connecticut,  June  24th,  1813. 
Endowed  by  nature  with  the  elements  essential  to  the  formation  of  a  true 
orator,  and  especially  quick  in  the  perception  of  analogies,  he  sways  the 
feelings  of  an  audience,  with  wonderful  facility,  by  vigorous  appeal,  vivid 
description,  and  endless  variety  of  illustration.  A  volume  of  "  Lectures  to 
Young  Men,"  "  The  Star  Papers"  (so  called  because  signed  with  an  asterisk 
as  they  separately  appeared  in  "The  Independent " newspaper),  a  novel,  "Nor- 
wood," and  the  "Plymouth  Collection  of  Hymns,"  and  some  occasional  addresses, 
make  up  the  sum  of  his  published  works. 

LIFE  THOUGHTS. 

HENRY  WARD  BEECHER. 
I. 

THE   OBJECT   OF   TRAINING. 

Many  children  grow  up  like  plants  under  bell-glasses.  They 
are  surrounded  only  by  artificial  and  prepared  influences.  They 
are  house-bred,  room-bred,  nurse-bred,  mother-bred — everything 


RHETORICAL    READER.  633 

but  self-hred  The  object  of  training  is  to  teach  the  child  to 
take  care  of  himself;  but  many  parents  use  their  children  only 
as  a  kind  of  spool  on  which  to  reol  off  their  own  experience; 
and  they  are  bound  and  corded  until  they  perish  by  inanity,  or 
break  all  bonds  and  cords,  and  rush  to  ruin  by  reaction. 

II. 

A   BLESSED   BANKRUPTCY. 

I  heard  a  man  who  had  failed  in  business,  and  whose  furni 
ture  was  sold  a""  auction,  say  that,  when  the  cradle,  and  the  cribj 
and  the  piano  went,  tears  would  come,  and  he  had  to  leave  the 
house  to  be  a  man.  Now,  there  are  thousands  of  men  who  have 
lost  their  pianos,  but  who  have  found  better  music  in  the  sound 
of  their  children's  voices  and  footsteps  going  cheerfully  down 
with  them  to  poverty,  than  any  harmony  of  chorded  instruments. 
0,  how  blessed  is  bankruptcy  when  it  saves  a  man's  children  ! 
I  see  many  men  who  are  bringing  up  their  children  as  I  should 
bring  up  mine,  if,  when  they  were  ten  years  old,  I  should  lay 
them  on  the  dissecting-table,  and  out  the  sinews  of  their  arms 
and  legs,  so  that  they  could  neither  walk  nor  use  their  hands, 
but  only  sit  still  and  be  fed.  Thus  rich  men  put  the  knife  of 
indolence  and  luxury  to  their  children's  energies,  and  they  grow 
up  fatted,  lazy  calves,  fitted  for  nothing,  at  twenty-five,  but  to 
drink  deep  and  squander  wide ;  and  the  father  must  be  a  slave 
all  his  life,  in  order  to  make  beasts  of  his  children.  How 
blessed,  then,  is  the  stroke  of  disaster,  which  sets  the  children 
free,  and  gives  tlem  over  to  the  hard,  but  kind  bosom  of  Poverty, 
who  says  to  them  ''  Work !"  and,  working,  makes  them  men  ! 

III. 

WORK,  NOT  WORRY. 

It  is  not  work  tha*  kills  men ;  it  is  worry.  "Work  is  healthy ; 
you  can  hardly  put  more  upon  a  man  than  he  can  bear.  Worry 
is  rust  upon  the  blade.  It  is  not  the  revolution  that  destroys 
the  machinery,  but  the  friction,  li'ear  secretes  acids ;  but  love 
and  trust  are  sweet  juices 


534  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES. 

IV. 
CHRISTIAN    man's   LIFE. 

A  Christian  man's  life  is  laid  in  the  loom  of  time  to  a  pattern 
whicli  he  does  not  see,  but  God  does ;  and  his  heart  is  a  shuttle. 
On  one  side  of  the  loom  is  sorrow,  and  on  the  other  is  joy;  and 
the  shuttle,  struck  alternately  by  each,  flies  back  and  forth,  car- 
rying the  thread,  which  is  white  or  black,  as  the  pattern  needs; 
and,  in  the  end,  when  God  shall  lift  up  the  finished  garment, 
and  all  its  changing  hues  shall  glance  out,  it  will  then  appear 
that  the  deep  and  dark  colors  were  as  needful  to  beauty  as  the 
bright  and  high  colors. 

V. 

UGLY   KIND   OF   FORGIVENESS. 

There  is  an  ugly  kind  of  forgiveness  in  this  world — a  kind 
of  hedge-hog  forgiveness,  shot  out  like  quills.  Men  take  one 
who  has  ojffended,  and  set  him  down  before  the  blow-pipe  of 
their  indignation,  and  scorch  him,  and  burn  his  fault  into  him; 
and,  when  they  have  kneaded  him  sufficiently  with  their  fiery 
fists,  then — they  forgive  him. 

VI. 

A   NOBLE    MAN. 

A  NOBLE  man  compares  and  estimates  himself  by  an  idea 
which  is  higher  than  himself,  and  a  mean  man  by  one  which  is 
lower  than  himself.  The  one  produces  aspiration;  the  other, 
ambition      Ambition  is  the  way  in  which  a  vulvar  man  aspires. 

VII. 
THE    SEVEREST    TEST    OF    FRIENDSHIP. 

It  is  one  of  the  severest  tests  of  friendship  to  tell  your  friend 
of  his  faults.  If  you  are  angry  with  a  man,  or  hate  him,  it  is 
not  hard  to  go  to  him  and  stab  him  with  words ;  but  so  to  love 
a  man  that  you  can  not  bear  to  see  the  stain  of  sin  upon  him, 
and  to  speak  painful  truth  through  loving  words, — that  is  friend- 
ship. But  few  liave  such  friends.  Our  enemies  usually  teach 
as  what  we  are,  at  the  point  of  the  sword. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  535 

VIII. 
TRUE   WAY    OF    LOOKING   AT    A   GIFT. 

Tee  other  day,  in  walking  down  the  street,  a  little  beggar 
boy, — or  one  who  might  have  begged,  so  ragged  was  he, — having 
discovered  that  I  loved  flowers,  came  and  put  into  my  hand  a 
faded  li<-tle  sprig  which  he  had  somewhere  found.  I  did  not 
look  directly  at  the  scrawny,  withered  branch,  but  beheld  it 
through  the  medium  of  the  boy's  heart,  seeing  what  he  would 
have  given,  not  what  he  gave;  and  so  looking,  the  shriveled 
stem  was  laden  with  blossoms  oi*  beauty  and  odor.  And  if  I, 
who  am  cold  and  selfish,  and  ignorant,  receive  so  graciously  the 
offering  of  a  poor  child,  with  what  tender  joy  must  our  heavenly 
Father  receive  the  sincere  tribute  of  his  creatures  when  he  looks 
through  the  medium  of  his  infinite  love  and  compassion ! 

IX. 

SCRIPTURAL    SOBRIETY. 

All  the  sobriety  which  religion  needs  or  requires,  is  that 
which  real  earnestness  produces.  Tears  and  shadows  are  not 
needful  to  sobriety.  Smiles  and  cheerfulness  are  as  much  its 
elements.  When  men  say, — Be  sober,  they  usually  mean,  Be 
stupid ;  but,  when  the  Bible  says,  Be  sober,  it  means,  Rouse  up 
and  let  fly  the  earnestness  and  vivacity  of  life.  The  old,  Scrip- 
tural sobriety  was  effectual  doing;  the  latter,  ascetic  sobriety  is 
effectual  dullness. 

X. 

HOME. 

A  Iran's  house  should  be  on  the  hill-top  of  cheer^Iness  and 
serenity,  so  high  that  no  shadows  rest  upon  it,  and  where  the 
morning  comes  so  early,  and  the  evening  tarries  so  late,  that  the 
day  has  twice  as  many  golden  hours  as  those  of  other  men. 
He  is  to  be  pitied  whose  house  is  in  some  valley  of  grief  between 
the  hills,  with  the  longest  night  and  the  shortest  day.  Hoeiq 
should  be  the  center  of  joy. 


536  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES. 


EXERCISE  CLXII. 


John  G.  C.  Brainard  was  born  in  New  London,  Connecticut,  October 
21st,  1796.  He  died  September  26th,  1828.  He  studied  law,  but  practiced 
little :  being  devoted  to  literary  pursuits.  He  was  a  chaste  and  beautiful 
writer,  both  in  prose  and  poetry. 

Epithala^'mium  is  the  Greek  name  for  a  nuptial,  or  wedding  song. 
It  was  sung  by  a  band  of  youths  and  maidens  in  honor  of  the  newly- 
wedded  pair,  breathing  wishes  for  their  prosperity.  Though  no  longw 
iu  vogue,  the  custom  of  singing  the  nuptial  song  was  very  ancient,  not 
only  among  the  Greeks  and  Romans,  but,  also,  among  the  Hebrews. 
The  45th  Psalm  affords  a  very  beautiful  specimen  of  this  sort  of  compo- 
fition;  being,  as  Bishop  Burnet  observes,  "an  epithalamium  to  Christ 
.and  the  Church." 


EPITHALAMIUM. 


JOHIf  a.  0.  BRAIHABD. 


I  saw  two  clouds  at  moTning, 

Tinged  by  the  rising  sun, 
And  in  the  dawn  they  floated  on, 

And  mingled  into  one  j 
I  thought  that  morning  cloud  was  blessed, 
It  moved  so  sweetly  to  the  west. 

n. 

I  saw  two  summer  currents 

Flow  smoothly  to  their  meeting, 
And  join  their  course,  with  silent  force, 

In  peace  each  other  greeting ; 
Calm  was  their  course  through  banks  of  greeii^ 
While  dimpling  eddies  played  between. 

III. 
Such  be  your  gentle  motion, 

Till  life's  last  pulse  shall  beat; 
Like  summer's  beam,  and  summer's  stream, 

Float  on,  in  joy,  to  meet 
A  calmer  sea,  where  storms  shall  cease, 
A  purer  sky,  where  all  is  peace. 


EHETORICAL    READER.  537 


EXERCISE  CLXIII. 

Serenade,  from  the  adjective  serene,  ia  the  name  applied  to  a  musical 
performance,  given  under  a  serene  or  clear  sky;  usually  under  the 
window  of  the  party  serenaded. 


SERENADE. 

I. 

Softly  the  moonlight 
Is  shed  on  the  lake, 
Cool  is  the  summer  night,- 
Wake  !  0,  awake  \ 
Faintly  the  curfew 
Is  heard  from  afar, 
List  ye !  0,  list 
To  the  lively  guitar. 

II. 
Trees  cast  a  mellow  shade 
Over  the  vale, 
Sweetly  the  serenade 
Breathes  in  the  gale. 
Softly  and  tenderly 
Over  the  lake, 
Gayly  and  cheerily, — 
Wake  !  0,  awake  ! 

III. 

See  the  light  pinnace 
Draws  nigh  to  the  shore, 
Swiftly  it  glides. 
At  the  heave  of  the  oar, 
Cheerily  plays 
On  its  buoyant  cflr, 
Nearer  and  nearer, 
The  lively  guitar. 


JAMIS  O.  PXBOrf  AL* 


*  For  a  Note  on  Percival,  see  Exercise  CLXVII. 
23*  R 


538  SANDERS'    UNION    SE&2SS. 

IV. 

Now  the  wind  rises 
And  ruffles  the  pine, 
Ripples  foam- created 
Like  diamonds  shine, 
They  flash  where  the  waters 
The  white  pebbles  lave, 
In  the  wake  of  the  moon, 
As  it  crosses  the  wave 

V. 

Bounding  from  billow 
To  billow,  the  boat, 
Like  a  wild  swan,  is  seen 
On  the  waters  to  float ; 
And  the  light  dripping  oare 
Bear  it  smoothly  along, 
In  time  to  the  air 
Of  the  gondolier's  song. 

VI. 

And  high  on  the  stern 

Stands  the  young  and  the  bnre, 

As  love-led  ho  crosses 

The  star-spangled  wave. 

And  blends  with  the  murmur 

Of  water  and  grove 

The  tones  of  the  night, 

That  are  sacred  to  love. 

VII. 

His  gold-hilted  sword 

At  his  bright  belt  is  hung, 

His  mantle  of  silk 

On  his  shoulder  is  flung, 

And  high  waves  the  feather, 

That  dances  and  plays 

On  his  cap  where  the  buckle 

And  rosary  blaze. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  53d 

vin. 
The  maid  from  her  lattice 
Looks  down  on  the  lake, 
To  see  the  foam  sparkle, 
The  bright  billow  break. 
And  to  hear  in  his  boat, 
Where  he  shines  like  a  star, 
Her  lover  so  tenderly 
Touch  his  guitar. 

IX. 

She  opens  her  lattice 
And  sits  in  the  glow 
Of  the  moonlight  and  starlight, 
A  statue  of  snow  j 
And  she  sings  in  a  voice 
That  is  broken  with  sighs, 
And  she  darts  on  her  lover 
The  light  of  her  eyes. 

X. 

The  moonlight  is  hid 
In  a  vapor  of  snow ; 
Her  voice  and  his  rebec 
Alternately  flow  j 
Re-echoed  they  swell 
From  the  rock  on  the  hill ; 
They  sing  their  farewell. 
And  the  music  is  still. 


EXERCISE  CLilV. 

Alice  Ciay  was  born  near  Cincinnati,  Ohio,  In  the  year  1822,  and  lived 
there  till  1850,  when  she  removed  to  New- York  city.  Like  many  others, 
whom  obstacles  rather  help  than  hinder,  despite  of  early  educational  disad- 
vantage, she  found  her  way  to  generous  culture  j  a  fact  which  abundantly 
appears  in  her  writings.     She  has  a  younger  sister,  Phoebe,  who  is,  also,  an 


540  SA.NDERS'    UNION    SERIES. 

authoress,  and,  in  connection  with  whom,  in  1850,  she  published  a  volume 
of  poems :  the  work  being  the  result  of  their  joint  labor.  Under  the  name 
"  Clovernook,"  she  has  published  some  sketches  of  rural  life,  which  were 
deservedly  received  with  considerable  favor  The  following  is  one  of  her 
best  efforts. 

PICTURES  OF  MEMORY. 

AUCB  OART. 
I 

Among  the  beautiful  pictures 

That  hang  on  memory's  wall, 
Is  one  of  a  dim  old  forest, 

That  seemeth  best  of  all : 
Not  for  its  gnarled  oaks  olden, 

Dark  with  the  misletoe; 
Not  for  the  violets  golden 

That  sprinkle  the  vale  below ; 
Not  for  the  milk-white  lilies 

That  lean  from  the  fragrant  hedge, 
Coquetting  all  day  with  the  sunbeams. 

And  stealing  their  shining  edge ; 
Not  for  the  vines  on  the  upland 

Where  the  bright  red  berries  be, 
Nor  the  pinks,  nor  the  pale,  sweet  cowslip 

It  seemeth  best  to  me. 

n. 

I  once  had  a  little  brother. 

With  eyes  that  were  dark  and  deep — 
In  the  lap  of  that  old  dim  forest 

He  lieth  in  peace  asleep : 
Light  as  the  down  of  the  thistle, 

Free  as  the  winds  that  blow, 
We  roved  there  the  beautiful  summers, 

The  summers  of  long  ago ; 
But  his  feet  on  the  hills  grew  weary, 

And,  one  of  the  autumn  eves, 
I  made  for  my  little  brother 

A  bed  of  the  yellow  leaves. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  541 

III. 

Sweetly  his  pale  arms  folded 

My  neck  in  a  meek  embrace, 
As  tlie  light  of  immortal  beauty 

Silently  covered  his  face  : 
And  when  the  arrows  of  sunset 

Lodged  in  the  tree-tops  bright, 
He  fell,  in  his  saint-like  beauty, 

Asleep  by  the  gates  of  light. 
Therefore,  of  all  the  pictures, 

That  hang  on  memory's  wall. 
The  one  of  the  dim  old  forest 

Seemeth  the  best  of  all. 


EXERCISE  CLXV. 

Ph<kbb  Catiy,  sister  of  Alice,  mentioned  in  the  Note  on  the  preceding 
Exercise,  has  been  a  frequent  contributor  to  periodicals.  She  published,  in 
1854,  a  volume  of  "  Poems  and  Parodies,"  which  evince  no  small  poetical 
talent. 

THE  ILLS  OF  LIFE. 

PHOtBX  CAST. 
I. 

How  oft,  when  pursued  by  evils, 

We  falter  and  faint  by  the  way. 
But  are  fearless  when,  o'ertaken, 

We  pause,  and  turn  at  bay. 

II. 
When  storms  in  the  distance  have  gathered, 

I  have  trembled  their  wrath  to  meet, 
Yet  stood  firm  when  the  arrowy  lightning 

Has  fallen  at  my  feet. 

III. 

My  soul,  in  the  shadows  of  twilight. 
Has  groaned  beneath  its  load. 


642  SANDEIIS>     UNION     SERIES. 

And  felt  at  the  solemn  midnight 
Secure  iu  the  hand  of  God. 

IV. 
I  have  been  with  friends  who  were  cherisned 

AU-earthly  things  above, 
Till  I  deemed  the  death-pangs  lighter  • 

Than  the  pangs  of  parting  love. 

V. 

Yet  with  one  fearful  struggle, 

When,  at  last,  the  dread  blow  fell, 

I  have  kept  my  heart  from  breaking, 
And  calmly  said,  Farewell  I 

VI. 

I  have  looked  at  the  grave  and  shuddered 
For  my  kindred  treading  near, 

And,  when  their  feet  had  entered, 
My  soul  forgot  its  fear. 

VII. 
Our  ills  are  not  so  many 

Nor  so  hard  to  bear  below. 
But  our  suffering,  in  dread  of  the  future, 

Is  more  than  our  prep<jnt  woe. 

vin. 

We  see,  with  our  vision  imperfect, 
Such  causes  of  doubt  and  fear, — 

8>ome  yet  that  are  far  in  the  distance. 
And  some  that  may  never  be  near, — 

IX. 

Wlien,  if  we  would  trust  in  His  wisdom 
Whose  purpose  we  may  not  see. 

We  should  find,  whatever  our  trials. 
As  our  day  our  strength  shall  be. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  543 


EXERCISE  CLXVI. 

Mrs.  Emily  C.  Judsok,  better  known,  however,  to  the  tea  ling  woild,  as 
"  Fanny  Forrester,"  was  born  in  Eaton,  Madison  county,  New  York,  August 
22d,  1817,  and  died  in  June,  1854.  She  began  her  career,  as  tn  teacher,  at  the 
early  age  of  fourteen,  and  continued  a  long  time  in  that  useful  and  honorable 
voaation.  But  a  more  brilliant  career, — that  of  authorship, — awaited  her. 
While  succeeding  admirably,  in  this  line,  a  new  direction  was  given  to  her 
whole  life  by  her  marriage  with  the  celebrated  Dr.  Adoniram  Judson,  the 
missionary.  This  took  place  in  June,  1846.  About  a  month  afterwards,  the 
Bailed  with  her  husband  for  India,  on  which  occasion,  in  a  style  gay  and 
sparkling,  as  was  her  manner,  she  penned  some  natural  observations,  of 
which  the  following  Exercise  forms  a  part.  In  1851,  upon  the  death  of  Mr. 
Judson,  she  returned  to  America.  The  rest  of  her  life  was  mainly  occupied 
in  literary  labors. 

OUTWARD  BOUND  I 

EMILT  C.  JUDSON. 

1.  Hurrab,  hurrah,  how  gayly  we  ride!  How  the  ship  careers ! 
How  she  leaps !  How  gracefully  she  bends !  How  fair  her 
white  wings  !  How  trim  her  hull !  How  slim  her  tall,  taper 
masts  !  What  a  beautiful  dancing  fairy  !  Up  from  my  narrow 
shelf  in  the  close  cabin,  have  I  crept  for  the  first  time  since  we 
loosed  cable,  and  swung  out  upon  the  tide,  and  every  drop  of 
blood  in  my  veins  jostles  its  neighbor  drop  exultingly;  for  here 
is  sublimity  unrivaled. 

2.  The  wild,  shifting,  restless  sea,  with  its  playful  waves, 
chasing  one  another  laughingly,  ever  and  anon  leaping  up,  shiv- 
ering themselves  by  the  force  of  their  own  mad  impulse,  and 
descending  again  in  a  shower  of  pearls, — the  soft,  azure  curva- 
ture of  the  sky,  shutting  down  upon  its  outer  rim,  as  though  we 
were  fairly  caged  between  blue  and  blue, — and  the  ship,  the 
gallant  ship,  plowing  her  own  path  in  the  midst,  bearing  human 
Bouls  upon  her  tremulous  breast,  with  her  white  wings  high  in 
air  and  her  feet  in  the  grave. 

3.  And  then  the  tumult,  the  creaking  of  cordage,  the  dash 
of  waters,  and  the  howling  of  winds — "  the  wind  and  the  sea 
roaring."  I  have  felt  my  heart  swell  and  my  blood  tingle  in 
my  veins,  when  I  stood  in  the  silent  forests  of  Alderbrook,*  and 

*  The  name  given  by  the  writer  to  her  own  rustic  home. 


544  SANDERS       UNION    SERIES. 

I  have  looked  up  at  the  solemn  old  trees  in  awe,  mingled  with 
strange  delight ;  the  awe  and  delight  have  both  deepened  at  the 
blaze  of  the  lightning  and  bellowing  of  the  thunder  amid  the 
wild,  echoing  rocks  of  Astonroga;  and  now,  in  this  strange 
uproar,  they  come  upon  my  heart,  and  make  it  bound  like  the 
ar  'ow  from  the  bended  bow. 

i  The  trees  were  the  temples  built  by  the  Almighty  for  His 
worship,  and  there  is  something  awfully  beautiful  in  their 
hadows ;  the  lightnings  "  go  and  say  unto  Him,  here  we  are  !" 
and  "  He  shut  up  the  sea  with  doors,  and  made  the  cloud  the 
garment  thereof,  and  thick  darkness  the  swaddling  baud  for  it/' 
And  here,  as  I  stand  poised  up  by  the  wild  elements,  I  feel 
myself  near,  very  near  to  the  only  Protector  who  has  a  hand  to 
save,  and,  in  the  hollow  of  that  all-powerful  hand,  I  rest  in  per- 
fect security. 

5.  God,  my  God,  I  go  forth  at  Thy  bidding,  and,  in  the  words 
of  Thine  own  inspired  poet, — "  Thou  art  my  buckler,  the  horn 
of  my  salvation,  and  my  high  tower."  The  sea  cannot  separate 
Thee  from  me,  the  darkness  of  midnight  cannot  hide  Thy  face, 
nor  can  the  raging  of  the  storm  drown  Thy  still  small  voice. 
My  heart  leaps  joyfully  as  I  trust  in  Thee. 

6.  On,  brave  little  wrestler  with  the  elements !  On,  right 
gallantly !  I  love  the  bounding,  the  dashing,  and  the  roaring, 
and  my  heart  shall  know  no  faltering  while  "  my  Father  is  at 
the  helm."  Hurra !  Gallantly  ride  we  in  this  skeleton  ship, 
while  the  sunlight  glints  gayly  on  white  bare  mast  and  slender 
spar.  Gallantly  ride  we  over  wave  and  hollow,  over  foam  and 
rainbow  j  now  perched  upon  the  white  ridge,  poising  doubtfully 
and  trembling  like  a  frighted  steed ;  now  plunging  down,  down 
into  the  measureless  trough,  which  seems  yawning  to  ingulf  us 
forever. 

7.  Wildly  blows  the  gale,  more  and  more  wildly  bound  the 
mighty  billows,  with  a  roaring  as  though  all  the  monsters  of  the 
deep  were  swarming  around  us.  But  not  so.  Neither  the  wide 
mouth  of  the  shark,  the  brown  back  of  the  porpoise,  nor  the 
spouting  nostril  of  the  whale  is  visible;  the  brilliant  dclphin, 
in  his  opal  jacket,  has  retreated  to  his  own  haunts  below  the 


RHETORICAL    READER.  b45 

storm,  and  the  little  "  Portuguese  man-of-war"  has  drawn  in  the 
pink  and  purple  fringes  of  his  silver  sail,  and  rolls,  like  a  cunning 
beetle,  from  wave  to  wave,  as  light  as  the  bubble  from  which 
he  cannot  be  distinguished. 

8.  Even  the  albatross  flapped  his  strong  pinion,  and  wheeled 
away  when  he  saw  the  winds  gathering  dark  in  the  heavens ; 
the  Cape  pigeon  lingered  a  little,  as  though  caring  lightly  for  the 
ruffling  of  his  mottled  plumage,  and  then  spread  his  butterfly- 
embroidered  wings,  and  hurried  after  j  but  the  stormy  petrel, 
though  small  and  delicate  as  the  timid  wren,  (I  will  take  a  lesson 
from  thee,  busy,  daring  little  spirit  that  thou  art,  bright  velvet- 
wingod  petrel),  scorns  to  seek  safety,  but  by  breasting  the  gale. 

9.  And  here  he  remains,  carousing  amid  the  foam,  as  though 
those  liquid  pearls,  leaping  high  in  air,  and  scattering  themselves 
upon  the  wind,  had  a  magic  in  them  to  shield  him  from  danger. 
He  dips  his  wing  in  the  angry  tide  as  daintily  as  though  it  were 
stirred  but  in  silver  ripples ;  then  he  darts  upward,  and  then 
plunges  and  is  lost  in  the  enshrouding  foam.  But,  no ;  he  is 
again  in  air,  whirling  and  balancing,  wheeling  and  careering, 
up  and  down,  as  though  stark  mad  with  joyousness,  and  now  he 
vaults  upon  the  back  of  the  nearest  foam  bank,  and  disappears 
to  rise  again  as  before. 

10.  And  still  the  billows  roar  and  bound,  and  lash  the  sides 
of  the  trembling  ship,  and  sweep  with  strange  force  her  decks; 
and  still  we  reel  and  plunge,  down,  down,  down,  s<irely.  No; 
we  are  up  again,  leaping  skyward;  we  pause  a  moment — and — 
what  a  fearful  pitch  was  that !  Ah,  my  brain  grows  giddy,  but 
still  I  can  not  hide  myself  in  my  dark  cabin.  Thank  God,  that 
He  has  spread  the  land  before  our  eyes  at  last,  that  He  has 
shielded  us,  when  wrath  was  stirring  in  the  heavens,  and  dark- 
ness was  upon  the  waters ;  that  He  has  pinioned  the  wings  of 
the  wind,  and  said  to  the  waves — "  Thus  far  shall  thou  go^  and 
no  further  1" 


2M 


546  -iANDERS'    UNION     SERIES. 


EXERCISE  CLXVII. 

Charles  Mackay,  one  of  the  most  popular  British  authors  ot  the  present 
day,  was  born  in  Peith,  Scotland,  in  the  year  1812.  He  is  mainly  remarkable 
as  a  writer  of  lyric  poetry,  though  his  other  productions  are  not  without 
extraordinary  merit.  Much  of  his  literary  labor  has  been  performed,  in  the 
regular  discharge  of  his  duties,  as  a  journalist:  he  having  been  connected  for 
nine  years,  commencing  in  1834,  with  the  editorial  staff  of  the  London 
"Morning  Chronicle,"  for  three  years  with  the  "Glasgow  Argus,"  and,  for 
Dng  time,  also,  with  the  "Illustrated  London  News."  Ilis  style  is  simple^ 
yet  stirring,  and  exactly  adapted  to  his  predominant  aim,  which  is  to  make 
powerful  appeal  to  the  better  feelings  and  instincts  of  mankind,  to  point  to 
the  high  hopes  discoverable  in  "  the  good  time  coming"  and  so  to  quicken 
and  strengthen  the  spirit  of  progress. 

DAYS  THAT  ARE  GONE. 

OHARLES  KAOKAT. 
I. 

Who  is  it  that  mourns  for  the  days  that  are  gone, 

When  a  noble  could  do  as  he  liked  with  his  own  ? 

When  his  serfs,  with  their  burdens  well  filled  on  their  backS| 

Never  dared  to  complain  of  the  weight  of  a  tax  ? 

When  his  word  was  a  statute,  his  nod  was  a  law, 

And  for  aught  but  his  "  order"  he  cared  not  a  straw? 

When  each  had  his  dungeon  and  rack  for  the  poor, 

And  a  gibbet  to  hang  a  refractory  boor  ? 

n. 

They  were  days  when  a  man  with  a  thought  in  his  pate 

Was  a  man  that  was  born  for  the  popular  hate ; 

And  if  'twere  a  thought  that  was  good  for  his  kind, 

The  man  was  too  vile  to  be  left  unconfined ; 

The  days  when  obedience,  in  right  or  in  wrong, 

Was  always  the  sermon  and  always  the  song; 

When  the  people,  like  cattle,  were  pounded  or  driven, 

And  to  scourge  them  was  thought  a  king's  license  from  heaven 

III. 
They  were  days  when  the  sword  settled  questions  of  right, 
And  Falsehood  wa«  first  to  monopolize  Might  j 


RHETORICAL    READER.  547 

When  the  fighter  of  battles  was  always  adored, 
And  the  greater  the  tyraut,  the  greater  the  lord  j 
When  the  king,  who  by  myriads  could  number  his  slain, 
Was  considered  by  far  the  most  worthy  to  reign  j 
When  the  fate  of  the  multitude  hung  on  his  breath — 
A  god  in  his  life,  and  a  saint  in  his  death. 

IV. 

They  were  days  when  the  headsman  was  always  prepared— 

The  block  ever  ready — the  ax  ever  bared ; 

When  a  corpse  on  the  gibbet  aye  swung  to  and  fro, 

And  the  fire  at  the  stake  never  smoldered  too  low; 

When  famine  and  age  made  a  woman  a  witch, 

To  be  roasted  alive,  or  be  drowned  in  a  ditch ; 

When  difierence  of  creed  was  the  vilest  of  crime, 

And  martyrs  were  burned  half  a  score  at  a  time. 

V. 

They  were  days  when  the  gallows  stood  black  in  the  way 
The  larger  the  town,  the  more  plentiful  they ; 
When  Law  never  dreamed  it  was  good  to  relent, 
Or  thought  it  less  wisdom  to  kill  than  prevent ; 
When  Justice  herself,  taking  Law  for  her  guide, 
Was  never  appeased  till  a  victim  had  died ; 
And  the  stealer  of  sheep,  and  the  slayer  of  men, 
Were  strung  up  together — again  and  again. 

VI. 

They  were  days,  when  the  crowd  had  no  freedom  of  speech. 

And  reading  and  writing  were  out  of  its  reach; 

When  ignorance,  stolid  and  dense,  was  its  doom. 

And  bigotry  swathed  it  from  cradle  to  tomb; 

But  the  Present,  though  clouds  o'er  her  countenance  roll, 

Has  a  light  in  her  eyes,  and  a  hope  in  her  soul. 

And  we  are  too  wise,  like  the  bigots,  to  mourn 

For  the  darkness  of  days  that  shall  never  return. 


548  SANDERS'     UNION    SERIES. 


EXERCISE  CLXVIII. 

Richard  Lalor  Sheil  was  born  near  Waterford,  in  Ireland,  AugtJt  17th, 
1791,  He  died  in  Florence,  May  23d,  1851.  After  taking  his  degree  at 
Trinity  College,  Dublin,  in  1811,  he  studied  law,  and  was  admitted  to  the  bar 
in  1814.  For  a  long  time,  however,  his  income  being  slender,  and  his  tastes 
inclined  to  the  drama,  he  ministered  to  both,  in  the  intervals  of  professional 
service,  by  composing  a  number  of  plays.  Most  of  these  had  remarkable 
success.  In  1822  he  began  a  series  of  "  Sketches  of  the  Irish  Bar,"  which  it 
regarded  as  one  of  his  best  literary  efforts.  About  that  time,  also,  he  cam* 
prominently  before  the  public,  as  a  political  and  forensic  orator.  In  1830  he 
became  a  member  of  the  British  House  of  Commons,  which  connection  he 
held  for  twenty  years.  Among  the  many  brilliant  achievements  of  his  par- 
liamentary career,  is  a  speech  on  the  Irish  Municipal  Bill,  delivered  in 
February,  1837,  of  which  speech  the  following  splendid  appeal  is  a  part. 

1  Richard  de  Clare,  Earl  of  Pembroke,  surnamed  Strongbow,  landed  in 
Ireland  with  an  invading  force  of  English  troops,  in  the  year  1169. 

*  Sir  Thomas  Wentworth,  Earl  of  Strafiford,  was  an  eminent  statesman 
in  the  time  of  Charles  I.  He  was  first  sent  to  Ireland,  as  Lord-deputy, 
in  1632,  where  he  exercised  a  very  arbitrary  sway  He  was  tried  and 
executed  on  a  charge  of  treason  in  his  forty-ninth  year. 

'  Arthur  Wellesley,  Duke  of  Wellington,  the  celebrated  hero  of 
Waterloo,  was  by  birth  an  Irishman,  having  been  born  in  that  country 
in  May,  1769. 

*  Assaye  (assi^),  a  little  town  in  Hindostan,  memorable  as  the  place 
where  the  Duke  of  Wellington — then  General  Wellesley — commenced 
his  victorious  career  (September  23d,  1803),  by  defeating  an  enemy 
immensely  superior  in  numbers. 

s  Waterloo,  a  village  of  Belgium,  the  scene  of  Wellington's  crowning 
achievement,  the  defeat  of  the  French  under  the  first  Napoleon,  June 
J  8th,  1815. 

THE  IRISH  NOT  ALIENS. 

RICHARD   LALOR   SHEIL. 

1.  I  should  be  surprised,  indeed,  if,  while  you  are  doing  us 
wrong,  you  did  not  profess  your  solicitude  to  do  us  Justice, 
From  the  day  on  which  Strongbow*  set  his  foot  upon  the  shore 
of  Ireland,  Englishmen  were  never  wanting  in  protestation;?  of 
their  deep  anxiety  to  do  ns  justice  ; — even  Strafford,  the  deserter 
of  the  people's  cause, — the  renegade  Wentworth,*  who  gave  evi- 
dence in  Ireland  of  the  spirit  of  instinctive  tyranny  which  pre- 
dominated in  his  character, — even  Strafford,  while  he  trampled 
upon  our  rights,  and  trod  upon  the  heart  of  the  country,  protested 


RHETORICAL    READER.  549 

his  solicituie  to  do  justice  to  Ireland  !  What  marvel  is  it,  then, 
that  gentlemen  opposite  should  deal  in  such  vehement  prcitesta- 
tions  ? 

2.  There  is,  however,  one  man,*  of  great  abilities, — not  a 
member  of  this  House,  but  whose  talents  and  whose  boldness 
have  J  laced  him  in  the  topmost  place  in  his  party, — who,  dis- 
daining all  imposture,  and  thinking  it  the  best  course  to  appeal 
directly  to  the  religious  and  national  antipathies  of  the  people 
of  this  country, — abandoning  all  reserve,  and  flinging  ofi"  the 
Blender  vail  by  which  his  political  associates  afi'ect  to  cover, 
although  they  cannot  hide  their  motives, — distinctly  and  auda- 
ciously tells  the  Irish  people  that  they  are  not  entitled  to  the 
same  privileges  as  Englishmen ;  and  pronounces  them,  in  any 
particular  which  could  enter  his  minute  enumeration  of  the  cir- 
cumstances by  which  fellow-citizenship  is  created,  in  race,  iden- 
tity, and  religion,  to  be  aliens, — to  be  aliens  in  race,  to  be  aliens 
in  country,  to  be  aliens  in  religion  ! 

3.  Aliens!  Gracious  Heaven  !  Was  Arthur,  Duke  of  Wel- 
lington,' in  the  House  of  Lords, — and  did  he  not  start  up  and 
exclaim,  —  "Hold!  I  have  seen  the  aliens  do  their 
DUTY !"  The  Duke  of  Wellington  is  not  a  man  of  an  excitable 
temperament.  His  mind  is  of  a  cast  too  martial  to  be  easily 
moved ;  but,  notwithstanding  his  habitual  inflexibility,  I  cannot 
help  thinking  that,  when  he  heard  his  Roman  Catholic  country- 
men (for  we  are  his  countrymen)  designated  by  a  phrase  as 
ofi'ensive  as  the  abundant  vocabulary  of  his  eloquent  confederate 
could  supply, — I  cannot  help  thinking  that  he  ought  to  have 
recollected  the  many  fields  of  fight,  in  which  we  have  been  con- 
tributors to  his  renown.  "  The  battles,  sieges,  fortunes  that  he 
has  passed,"  ought  to  have  come  back  upon  him. 

4  He  ought  to  have  remembered  that,  from  the  earliest 
achievement  in  which  he  displayed  that  military  genius  which 
has  placed  him  foremost  in  the  annals  of  modern  warfare,  down 

*  The  reference  is  to  Lord  Lyndhurst,  who,  a  short  time  before,  had, 
m  the  House  of  Lords,  spoken  of  the  Irish,  as  '^aliens,  in  blood  and 
religion."  He  happened  to  be  present  in  the  House  of  Commons,  while 
Shell  w  as  speaking. 


/ 

550  SANDERS'     UNION    SERIES. 

to  that  last  and  surpassing  combat  which  has  made  his  name 
imperishable, — from  Assaye*  to  Waterloo,* — the  Irish  soldiers, 
with  whom  your  armies  are  filled,  were  the  inseparable  auxiliaries 
to  the  glory  with  which  his  unparalleled  successes  have  been 
crowned.  Whose  were  the  arms  that  drove  your  bayonets  at 
Vimeira  through  the  phalanxes  that  never  reeled  in  the  shock 
of  war  before  ?  What  desperate  valor  climbed  the  steeps  and 
filled  the  moats  at  Badajos  ?* 

5.  All  his  victories  should  have  rushed  and  crowded  back 
upon  his  memory, — Vimeira,*  Badajos,*  Salamanca,*  Albuera,* 

Toulouse,*  and,  last  of  all,  the  greatest .      Tell  me, — for 

youf  were  there, — I  appeal  to  the  gallant  soldier  before  me, 
from  whose  opinions  I  diifer,  but  who  bears,  I  know,  a  generous 
heart  in  an  intrepid  breast ; — tell  me, — for  you  must  needs 
remember, — on  that  day  when  the  destinies  of  mankind  were 
trembling  in  the  balance,  while  death  fell  in  showers,  when  the 
artillery  of  France  was  leveled  with  a  precision  of  the  most 
deadly  science, — when  her  legions,  incited  by  the  voice  and 
inspired  by  the  example  of  their  mighty  leader,  rushed  again 
and  again  to  the  onset, — tell  me  if,  for  an  instant,  when  tf. 
hesitate  for  an  instant  was  to  be  lost,  the  "  aliens"  blenched  ? 

6.  And  when,  at  length,  the  moment  for  the  last  and  decided 
movement  had  arrived,  and  the  valor  which  had  so  long  been 
wisely  checked  was,  at  last,  let  loose, — when,  with  words  familiar, 
but  immortal,  the  great  captain  commanded  the  great  assault, — 
tell  me  if  Catholic  Ireland  with  less  heroic  valor  than  the  native? 
of  this  your  own  glorious  country  precipitated  herself  upon  the 

*  Vimeira  [ve  m(V  e  ra),  Badajos  (bad  a  hus'),  Salamanca,  Toulouse 
{too  looz),  and  Albuera  [al  boo  d^  ra),  are  the  names  of  places  ■where  the 
French  met  defeat  from  the  English  under  the  lead  of  Wellington, 
except  at  the  last  place,  where  the  English  were  commanded  by  General 
Beresford. 

f  This  appeal  is  to  Sir  Henry  Hardinge,  who  served  under  Welling- 
ton during  the  whole  Peninsular  war.  He  was  not,  however,  present 
at  the  battle  of  Waterloo,  as  the  orator  asserts ;  being  deprived  of  that 
privilege  by  the  less  of  an  arm  in  the  battle  of  Ligny,  which  occurred 
two  days  before. 


R»TET0R1CAL    READER.  551 

foo  ?  The  blood  of  England,  Scotland,  and  of  Ireland  flowed 
in  the  rfame  stream,  and  drenched  the  same  field.  When  the 
chill  morning  dawned,  their  dead  lay  cold  and  stark  together; — 
in  the  same  deep  pit  their  bodies  were  deposited ;  the  green  corn 
of  spring  is  now  breaking  from  their  commingled  dust;  the  dew 
falls  from  heaven  upon  their  union  in  the  grave.  Partakers  ir 
every  peril,  in  the  glory  shall  we  not  be  permitted  to  partic'pate  ? 
and  shall  we  be  told,  as  a  requital,  that  we  are  estranged  frou) 
the  noble  country  for  whose  salvation  our  life-blood  was  poured 
uut  ? 


EXERCISE  CLXIX 

Mark  Akensidr  was  born  at  Newcastle-upo»  Tyne,  Norember  9th,  1721, 
and  died  in  London,  June  23d,  1770.  Ho  was  a. physician,  and  held  eminent 
rank  in  that  profession.  His  habits,  however,  were  those  of  a  secluded 
scholar,  fond  of  ancient  lore,  much  given  to  philosophic  speculation,  calm, 
meditative,  reserved  in  his  manners,  fastidious  in  his  tastes,  and  exclusive  in 
his  associations.  His  "  Pleasures  of  Imagination,"  on  which  work  rests 
chiefly  his  fame,  is  rather  a  philuHophic  than  a  poetic  inspiration ;  rich  in 
classical  allusion,  correct  and  chaste  in  sentiment,  but  unimpassioned;  par- 
taking more  of  the  head  than  the  heart,  yet  containing  many  fine  passages, 
such  as  cannot  fail  to  chain  attention  and  make  powerful  and  perrnai-ent 
impression.     We  give,  for  the  present  Exercise,  some  beautiful  extracts. 

PASSAGES  FROM  AKENSIDE. 


BEAUTY  THE  MINISTRESS  OF  TRUTH  AND  GOOD. 

Thus  was  BEAUTY  sent  from  Heaven, 
The  lovely  ministress  of  truth  and  good 
In  this  dark  world :  for  truth  and  good  are  one, 
And  Beauty  dwells  in  them,  and  they  in  her, 
With  like  participation.     Wherefore,  then, 
O  sons  of  earth  !  would  ye  dissolve  the  tie  ? 
0,  wherefore,  with  a  rash,  impetuous  aim. 
Seek  ye  those  flowery  joys  with  which  the  hand 
Of  lavish  fancy  paints  each  flattering  scene, 
Where  Beauty  seems  to  dwell,  nor  once  inquire 
Where  is  the  sanction  of  eternal  truth, 


552      ■  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES. 

Or  where  the  seal  of  undeceitful  good, 

To  save  your  search  from  folly !     Wanting  these, 

Lo!  Beauty  withers  in  your  void  embrace, 

And  with  the  glittering  of  an  idiot's  toy 

Did  fancy  mock  your  vows. 

II. 

MORAL  SUBLIMITY. 

Mind,  mind  alone,  (bear  witness,  Earth  and  Heayen  t) 
The  living  fountains  in  itself  contains 
Of  beauteous  and  sublime :  here,  hand  in  hand, 
Sit  paramount  the  graces ;  here  enthroned. 
Celestial  Venus,  with  divinest  airs. 
Invites  the  soul  to  never-fading  joy. 
Look  then  abroad  through  nature,  to  the  range 
Of  planets,  suns,  and  adamantine  spheres. 
Wheeling  unshaken  through  the  void  immense; 
And  speak,  0  man !  does  this  capacious  scene 
With  half  that  kindling  majesty  dilate 
The  strong  conception,  as  when  Brutus  rose 
Refulgent  from  the  stroke  of  Caesar's  fate, 
Amid  the  crowd  of  patriots;  and  his  arm 
Aloft  extending,  like  eternal  Jove, 
When  guilt  brings  down  the  thunder,  called  aloud 
On  Tully's  name,  and  shook  his  crimson  steel, 
And  bade  the  father  of  his  country  hail  ? 
For,  lo !  the  tyrant  prostrate  on  the  dust, 
And  Rome  again  is  free ! 

III. 

nature's  CHARMS  OPEN  TO  ALL. 

0  blest  of  Heaven !  whom  not  the  languid  songs 
Of  luxury,  the  siren  !  not  the  bribes 
Of  sordid  wealth,  nor  all  the  gaudy  spoils 
Of  pageant  honor,  can  seduce  to  leave 
Those  ever-blooming  sweets,  which  from  the  store 
Of  Nature  fair  imagination  culls 
To  charm  the  enlivened  soul  1     What  though  not  all 


RHETORICAL    READER.  558 

Of  mortal  offspring  can  attain  the  bights 
Of  envied  life;  though  only  few  possess 
Patrician  treasures  or  imperial  state ; 
Yet  Nature's  care,  to  all  her  children  just, 
With  richer  treasures  and  an  ampler  state, 
Endows,  at  large,  whatever  happy  man 
"Will  deign  to  use  them. 

IV. 
APOSTROPHE  TO  HIS  BIRTHPLACE. 

0  ye  dales 
Of  Tyne,  and  ye  most  ancient  woodlands ;  where 
Oft  as  the  giant  flood  obliquely  strides, 
And  his  banks  open  and  his  lawns  extend. 
Stops  short  the  pleased  traveler  to  view, 
Presiding  o'er  the  scene,  some  rustic  tower 
Founded  by  Norman  or  by  Saxon  hands! 

0  ye  Northumbrian  shades,  which  overlook 
The  rocky  pavement  and  the  mossy  falls 
Of  solitary  Wensbeck's  limpid  stream ! 
How  gladly  I  recall  your  well-known  seats, 
Beloved  of  old,  and  that  delightful  time 
When  all  alone,  for  many  a  summer's  day, 

1  wandered  through  your  calm  recesses,  led 
In  silence  by  some  powerful  hand  unseen. 
Nor  will  I  e'er  forget  you  j  nor  shall  e^er 
The  graver  tasks  of  manhood,  or  the  advice 
Of  vulgar  wisdom,  move  me  to  disclaim 
Those  studies  which  possessed  me  in  the  dawn 
Of  life,  and  fixed  the  color  of  my  mind 

For  every  future  year :  wnence  even  now 
From  sleep  I  rescue  the  clear  hours  of  morn. 
And,  while  the  world  around  lies  overwhelmed 
In  idle  darkness,  am  alive  to  thoughts 
Of  honorable  fame,  of  truth  divine 
Or  moral,  and  of  minds  to  virtue  won 
By  the  sweet  magic  of  harmonious  verse. 
24  6  R 


554  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES 


EXERCISE  CLXX. 


Edgar  Allas  Poe  was  born  in  Baltimore,  in  January,  1811,  and  died 
there  in  October,  1849.  He  was  the  second  of  three  children,  left  utterly 
destitute  upon  the  death  of  their  parents,  who  led  the  life  of  roving  play- 
actors. Being  a  bright  and  beautiful  boy,  he  was  adopted  by  Mr.  John 
Allan,  a  wealthy  citizen  of  Richmond,  Virginia,  and  by  him  afforded  the 
advantages  of  a  complete  education.  But  bia  whole  course  of  life  seems  to 
have  been  marked  with  strangely  wild  and  dissolute  habits,  and,  though  hit 
writings  discover  no  ordinary  power  of  thought  and  expression,  they  art 
marred  by  "an  absence  of  moral  sentiment,"  it  has  been  observed,  "almost 
unexampled  in  literature."  In  the  following  piece,  the  student  will  scarcely 
fail  to  notice,  in  the  subject,  the  characteristic  gloom  of  his  topics,  while,  in 
the  execution,  he  will  see,  at  once,  the  rare  capabilities  of  the  English  language 
and  the  rarer  skill  of  this  singular  genius  in  developing  them. 

^  Pluto-'nian,  pertaining  to  Pluto,  another  name  for  Hades,  the 
fabled  god  of  the  lower  regions. 

*  Nepen-'the  is  from  the  Greek  (Ne,  not  or  without,  and  Penthe. 
grief  or  sorrow),  and  is  a  name  applied  to  a  medicine  that  relieves  pain 
or  soothes  grief. 

*  AiDKNN  is,  according  to  the  opinion  of  some,  a  form  of  the  Greek  word 
Hades,  which  sij^nifles,  literally,  unseen;  the  name  being  in  later  times  ap- 
plied to  t\\Q  place  of  the  dead, — the  spiritual  world.  According  to  others,  it 
is  "an  Anglicized  and  disguised  spelling  of  the  Arabic  form  of  the  word 
Eden; — iised  as  a  synonym  for  the  celestial  paradise."  See  Webster's  New 
Diciioiiary,  pnge  1545. 

THE  RAVEN. 

KIM     S.  A.  VUA. 
I. 

Once  upon  a  midnight  dreary,  while  I  pondered,  weak  ai-d  weary. 
Over  many  a  quaint  and  curious  volume  of  forgotten  Icfe, — 
While  I  nodded,  nearly  napping,  suddenly  there  came  a  tappins:. 
As  of  some  one  gently  rapping,  rapping  at  my  chamber-door. 
"  'Tis  some  visitor,"  I  muttered,  "  tapping  at  my  chamber-door — 
Only  this,  and  nothing  more." 

II. 
A-h,  distinctly  I  remember,  it  was  in  the  bleak  December, 
And  each  separate  dying  ember  wrought  its  ghost  upon  tlie  floor, 
Eagerly  I  wished  the  morrow:  vainly  I  had  sought  to  borrow 
From  my  books  surcease  of  sorrow — sorrow  for  the  los>  Lenor© — 


RHETORICAL    READER.  555 

For  the  rare  and  radiant  maiden  whom  the  angels  name  Lenore — 
Nameless  here  forevermore. 

III. 

And  tho  silken,  sad,  uncertain  rustling  of  each  purple  curtain. 
Thrilled  me — filled  me  with  fantastic  terrors  never  felt  before ; 
So  that  now,  to  still  the  beating  of  my  heart,  I  stood  repeating, 
"  'Tis  some  visitor,  entreating  entrance  at  my  chamber-door ; 
Some  lato  risitor,  entreating  entrance  at  my  chamber-door: 
That  it  is,  and  nothing  more." 

IV. 

Presently  my  soul  grew  stronger :  hesitating  then  no  longer, 
"  Sir,"  said  I,  "  or  Madam,  truly  your  forgiveness  I  implore ; 
But  the  fact  is,  I  was  napping,  and  so  gently  yoi|  came  rapping, 
And  so  faintly  you  came  tapping,  tapping  at  my  chamber-door, 
That  I  scarce  was  sure  I  heard  you" — here  I  opened  wide  the  door  : 
Darkness  there,  and  nothing  more. 

V 

Beep  into  that  darkness  peering,  long  I  stood  there,  wondering, 

fearing, 
Doubting,  dreaming  dreams  no   mortals  ever  dared  to   dream 

before ; 
But  the  silence  was  unbroken,  and  the  stillness  gave  no  token. 
And  the  only  word  there  spoken  was  the  whispered  word,— 

"Lenore!" 
This  /  whispered,  and  an  echo  murmured  back  the"  word,— 

"Lenore!" 

Merely  this,  and  nothing  more. 

VI. 
Jiack  into  the  chamber  turning,  all  my  soul  within  me  burning, 
Soon  again  I  heard  a  tapping,  something  louder  than  before. 
"  Surely,"  said  I,  "  surely  that  is  something  at  my  window-lattice' 
Let  me  see  then  what  thereat  is,  and  this  mystery  explore, — 
Let  my  heart  be  still  a  moment,  and  this  mystery  explore ; — 
'Tis  the  wind,  and  nothing  more." 


666  SANDURS'    UNION    SERIES. 

VII. 

Open  here  I  flung  the  shutter,  when,  with  many  a  flirt  and  flutter, 
In  there  stepped  a  stately  raven  of  the  saintly  days  of  yore. 
Not  the  least  obeisance  made  he ;  not  a  minute  stopped  or  stayed  he ; 
But,  with  mien  of  lord  or  lady,  perched  above  my  chamber-door — 
Perched  upon  a  bust  of  Pallas,*  just  above  my  chamber-door — 
Perched,  and  sat,  and  nothing  more. 

VIII. 
Then  this  ebony  bird  beguiling  my  sad  fancy  into  smiling, 
By  the  grave  and  stern  decorum  of  the  countenance  it  wore, 
*'  Though  thy  crest  be  shorn  and  shaven,  thou,"  I  said,  "  art  sure 

no  craven ; 
Ghastly,  grim,  and  ancient  raven,  wandering  from  the  nightly 

shore, 
Tell  me  what  thy  lordly  name  is  on  the  Night's  Plutonian*  shore?" 
Quoth  the  raven, — ^^  Nevermore!" 

IX. 

Much  I  marveled  this  ungainly  fowl  to  hear  discourse  so  plainly, 
Though  its  answer  little  meaning — little  relevancy  bore ; 
For  we  can  not  help  agreeing  that  no  living  human  being 
Ever  yet  was  blessed  with  seeing  bird  above  his  chamber-door — 
Bird  or  beast  upon  the  sculptured  bust  above  his  chamber-door, 
With  such  name  as  "  Nevermore  /" 

X. 

But  the  raven  sitting  lonely  on  the  placid  bust,  spoke  only 

That  one  word,  as  if  his  soul  in  that  one  word  he  did  outpour. 

Nothing  further  then  he  uttered — not  a  feather  then  he  flut- 
tered— 

Till  I  scarcely  more  than  muttered, — "  Other  friends  have  flown 
before, — 

On  the  morrow  he  will  leave  me,  as  my  hopes  have  flown  before  '^ 
Then  the  bird  said, — "  Nevermore!" 

*  See  Note  on  Exercise  CXIII. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  557 

XI. 

Startled  at  the  stillness,  broken  by  reply  so  aptly  spoken, 
"  Doubtless,"  said  I,  "  what  it  utters  is  its  only  stock  and  st(.i<, 
Caught  from  some  unhappy  master,  whom  unmerciful  disaster 
Followed  fast  and  followed  faster,  till  his  songs  one  burden  bore, — 
Till  the  dirges  of  his  hope  that  melancholy  burden  bore, 
Of — '  Never — Nevermore  V  " 

XII. 

But  the  raven  still  beguiling  all  my  sad  soul  into  smiling, 
Straight  I  wheeled  a  cushioned  seat  in  front  of  bird,  and  bust, 

and  door, 
Then,  upon  the  velvet  sinking,  I  betook  myself  to  linking 
Fancy  unto  fancy,  thinking  what  this  ominous  bird  of  yore — 
What  this  grim,  ungainly,  ghastly,  gaunt,  and  ominous  bird  of  yore 
Meant  in  croaking — "  Nevermore  J" 

XIII. 

This  I  sat  engaged  in  guessing,  but  no  syllable  expressing 
To  the  fowl,  whose  fiery  eyes  now  burned  into  my  bosom's  core ; 
This  and  more  T  sat  divining,  with  my  head  at  ease  reclining 
On  the  cushion's  velvet  lining  that  the  lamp-light  gloated  o'er, 
But  whose  velvet  violet  lining,  with  the  lamp-light  gloating  o'er, 
She  shall  press — ah  !  nevermore  ! 

XIV 

Then  methought  the  air  grew  denser,  perfumed  from  an  unseen 

censer 
Swung  by  seraphim,  whose  foot-falls  tinkled  on  the  tufted  floor. 
*'  Wretch,"  I  cried,  "  thy  God  hath  lent  thee — by  these  angels 

he  hath  sent  thee 
Respite — respite  and  nepenthe '^  from  thy  memories  of  Lenoro  ! 
QuaflP,  oh,  quaff  this  kind  nepei  '^he,''  and  forget  this  lost  Lenore!' 
Quoth  the  raven, — '^Nevermore!" 


558  BANDERS'     UNION    SERIES. 

XV. 

"  Prophet !''  said  I,  "thing  of  evil ! — prophet  still,  if  bird  or  devil 
Whether  tempter  sent,  or  whether  tempest   tossed    thee  here 

ashore, 
Desolate,  yet  all  undaunted,  on  this  desert  land  enchanted — 
On  this  home  by  Horror  haunted — tell  me  truly,  I  implore — 
Is  there — is  there  balm  in  Gilead? — tell  me — tell  me,  I  implore  " 
Quoth  the  raven, — '* Nevermore!" 

XVI. 

'*  Prophet!"  said  I,  "  thing  of  evil ! — prophet  still,  if  bird  or  devil! 
By  that  heaven  that  bends  above  us — by  that  God  we  both  adore, 
Tell  this  soul,  with  sorrow  laden,  if,  within  the  distant  Aidenn,' 
It  shall  clasp  a  sainted  maiden,  whom  the  angels  name  Lenore ; 
Clasp  a  rare  and  radiant  maiden,  whom  the  angels  name  Lenore  V 
Quoth  the  raven, — ^^  Nevermore  !" 

XVII. 

"  Be  that  word  our  sign  of  parting,  bird  or  fiend !"  I  shrieked, 

upstarting — 
•*  Get  thee  back  into  the  tempest  and  the  Night's  Plutonian  shore ! 
Leave  no  black  plume  as  a  token  of  that  lie  thy  soul  hath  spoken  I 
Leave  my  loneliness  unbroken ! — quit  the  bust  above  my  door ! 
Take  thy  beak  from  out  my  heart,  and  take  thy  form  from  off 

my  door  I" 

Quoth  the  raven, — '^Nevermore!" 

XVIII. 

And  the  raven,  never  flitting,  still  is  sitting,  still  is  sitting 
On  the  pallid  bust  of  Pallas,  just  above  my  chamber-door; 
And  his  eyes  have  all  the  seeming  of  a  demon's  that  is  dreaming. 
And  the  lamp-hght  o'er  him  streaming  throws  his  shadow  on 

the  floor ; 
A.nd  my  80u'  from  out  that  shadow  that  lies  floating  on  the  flooi 
^  Shall  be  lifted — nevermore  ! 


RHETORICAL    READER.  569 


EXERCISE  CLXXI. 

William  Wirt  was  born  at  Bladensburg,  in  Maryland,  Noven  ber  8th, 
1772,  and  died  in  Baltimore,  February  18th,  1834.  lie  was  brought  up  in  the 
family  of  an  uncle ;  both  of  hi.s  parents  being  dead  before  he  had  passed  his 
eighth  year.  He  received  a  moderate  amount  of  educational  training,  both 
English  and  Classical;  after  which  he  studied  law,  and  practiced  with  success 
in  several  places  in  Virginia,  whither  he  had  removed,  till  the  year  180S, 
when  he  first  appeared  as  an  author  by  publishing,  in  the  "  Richmond  Argus," 
his  celebrated  letters,  under  the  name  of  "The  British  Spy."  In  1806  he 
took  up  his  abode  in  Richmond,  where  the  next  year  he  gained  a  splendid 
reputation  for  forensic  eloquence  by  the  part  he  took  in  the  famous  trial  of 
Aaron  Burr.  From  the  speech  made  on  that  occasion,  which  occupied  four 
hours  in  its  delivery,  we  take  the  fine  retort  which  forms  the  present  Exercise. 
The  residue  of  Mr,  Wirt's  life  was  spent  in  professional  pursuits  both  in  and 
out  of  public  ofiice,  varied  by  occasional  literary  labors.  Besides  "  The 
British  Spy,"  he  is  the  author  of  a  work  entitled  the  "  Old  Bachelor,"  "  Life 
of  Patrick  Henry,"  and  several  minor  publications. 

A  FINE   RETORT. 

WILLIAM  WIRT. 

1.  In  proceeding  to  answer  the  argument  of  the  gentleman, 
I  will  treat  him  with  candor.  If  I  misrepresent  him,  it  will  not 
be  intentionally.  I  will  not  follow  the  example  which  he  has 
set  me,  on  a  very  recent  occasion.  I  will  endeavor  to  meet  the 
gentleman's  propositions  in  their  full  force,  and  to  answer  them 
fairly. 

2.  I  will  not,  as  I  am  advancing  towards  them,  with  my  mind's 
eye,  measure  the  hight,  breadth,  and  power  of  the  proposition ; 
if  I  find  it  beyond  my  strength,  halve  it;  if  still  beyond  my 
strength,  quarter  it;  if  still  necessary,  subdivide  it  into  eighths; 
and  when,  by  this  process,  T  have  reduced  it  to  the  proper 
standard,  take  one  of  these  sections  and  toss  it  with  an  air  of 
elephantine  strength  and  superiority.  If  I  find  myself  capable 
of  conducting,  by  a  fair  course  of  reasoning,  any  one  of  his 
propositions  to  an  absurd  conclusion,  I  will  not  begin  by  stating 
that  absurd  conclusion  as  the  proposition  itself  which  I  am  going 
to  encounter. 

3.  I  will  not,  in  commenting  on  the  gentleman's  authorities, 
thank  the  gentleman,  with  sarcastic  politeness,  for  introducing 
them,  declare  that  they  conclude  directly  against  hiin,  read  just 
80  much  of  the  authority  as  serves  the  purpose  of  that  declare- 


560  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES. 

tion,  omitting  that  which  contains  the  true  point  of  the  case, 
which  makes  against  me ;  nor,  if  forced  by  a  direct  call  to  read 
that  part,  also,  will  I  content  myself  by  running  over  it  as  rapidly 
and  inarticulately  as  I  can,  throw  down  the  book  with  a  theat- 
rical air,  and  exclaim, — "  Just  as  I  said  V  when  I  know  it  is  just 
as  I  had  not  said. 

4.  I  know  that,  by  adopting  these  arts,  I  might  raise  a  'augh 
at  the  gentleman's  expense ;  but  I  should  be  very  little  pleased 
with  myself,  if  I  were  capable  of  enjoying  a  laugh  procured  by 
such  means.  I  know,  too,  that  by  adopting  such  arts,  there  will 
always  be  those  standing  around  us,  who  have  not  comprehended 
the  whole  merits  of  the  legal  discussion,  with  whom  I  might 
shake  the  character  of  the  gentleman's  science  and  judgment,  aa 
a  lawyer.  I  hope  I  shall  never  be  capable  of  such  a  wish ;  and 
I  had  hoped  that  the  gentleman  himself  felt  so  strongly  that 
proud,  that  high,  aspiring,  and  ennobling  magnanimity,  which 
I  had  been  told  conscious  talents  rarely  fail  to  inspire,  that  he 
would  have  disdained  a  poor  and  fleeting  triumph,  gained  by 
means  like  these. 


EXERCISE  CLXXII. 

John  Quincy  Adams,  whose  father,  John  Adams,  was  the  second  Presideni, 
of  the  United  States,  was  born  in  Braintree,  Massachusetts,  July  11th,  1767, 
and  died  in  Washington,  February  23d,  1848.  His  early  education  was 
obtained  mainly  in  schools  abroad,  while  he  was  with  his  father  on  his  several 
public  missions.  In  1786,  however,  he  returned  to  Massachusetts,  and  entered 
Harvard  College.  After  his  college  course,  he  studied  and  practiced  law. 
In  the  intervals  of  professional  duty,  however,  he  made  himself  known  as  an 
effective  writer :  having  published  a  variety  of  papers  on  various  subjects  of 
public  interest.  In  1794  he  was  made  minister  to  the  Hague  by  President 
Washington.  Under  his  father's  administration,  having,  in  the  meantime, 
been  married  to  the  daughter  of  Joshua  Johnson,  the  American  consul  at 
London,  he  became  minister  to  Berlin.  His  public  career  thenceforward,  till 
and  after,  he  reached  the  Presidency  himself,  was  one  of  distinguished  ability 
and  success.  He  was  a  man  of  almost  universal  culture,  perfectly  upright  in 
character,  and  most  eloquent  in  speech.  He  died  under  the  circumstances  so 
briefly,  but  vividly  stated  by  Mr.  Seward,  in  the  next  Exercise. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  561 

THE  DECLARATION  OF  INDEPENDENCE. 

JOHN    QOINCT   ADAMS. 

1.  The  Declaration  of  Independence!  The  interest 
which,  in  that  paper,  has  survived  the  occasion  upon  which  it 
was  issued, — the  interest  which  is  of  every  age  and  every  clime, 
— the  interest  which  quickens  with  the  lapse  of  years,  spreads 
as  it  grows  old,  and  brightens  as  it  recedes, — is  in  the  principles 
which  it  proclaims.  It  was  the  first  solemn  declaration,  ^y  a 
aation  of  the  only  legitimate  foundation  of  civil  government. 
It  was  the  corner-stone  of  a  new  fabric,  destined  to  cover  the 
surface  of  the  globe.  It  demolished,  at  a  stroke,  the  lawfulness 
of  all  governments  founded  upon  conquest.  It  swept  away  all 
the  rubbish  of  accumulated  centuries  of  servitude.  It  announced, 
in  practical  form,  to  the  world,  the  transcendent  truth  of  the 
inalienable  sovereignty  of  the  people.  It  proved  that  the  social 
compact  was  no  figment  of  the  imagination,  but  a  real,  solid,  and 
sacred  bond  of  the  social  union. 

2.  From  the  day  of  this  declaration,  the  people  of  North 
America  were  no  longer  the  fragment  of  a  distant  empire,  im- 
ploring justice  and  mercy  from  an  inexorable  master,  in  another 
hemisphere.  They  were  no  longer  children,  appealing  in  vain 
to  the  sympathies  of  a  heartless  mother;  no  longer  subjects, 
leaning  upon  the  shattered  columns  of  royal  promises,  and  in- 
voking the  faith  of  parchment  to  secure  their  rights.  They 
were  a  nation,  asserting  as  of  right,  and  maintaining  by  war,  its 
own  existence.     A  nation  was  born  in  a  day. 

"  How  many  ages  hence 
Shall  this,  their  lofty  scene,  be  acted  o'er, 
In  States  unborn,  and  accents  yet  unknown  ?" 

i.L  It  will  be  "  acted  o'er,"  fellow-citizens,  but  it  can  never  bo 
repeated.  It  stands,  and  must  forever  stand,  alone;  a  beacon  on 
the  summit  of  the  mountain,  to  which  all  the  inhabitants  of  the 
earth  may  turn  eyes,  for  a  genial  and  saving  light,  till  time  shall 
be  lost  in  eternity,  and  this  globe  itself  dissolve,  nor  leave  a 
wreck  behind.  It  stands  forever,  a  light  of  admonition  to  the 
rulers  of  men,  a  light  of  salvation  and  redemption  to  the  op« 
24*  R 


562  SANDERS'     UNION     SERIES. 

pressed.  So  long  as  this  planet  shall  be  inhabited  by  human 
beings,  so  long  as  nnan  shall  be  of  a  social  nature,  so  long  aa 
government  shall  be  necessary  to  the  great  moral  purposes  of 
society,  so  long  as  it  shall  be  abused  to  the  purposes  of  oppres- 
sion— so  long  shall  this  Declaration  hold  out,  to  the  soveic^ign  and 
to  the  subject,  the  extent  and  the  boundaries  of  their  respective 
rights  and  duties,  founded  in  the  laws  of  nature  and  of  nature's 
God. 


EXERCISE  CLXXIII. 

William  Hekry  Seward,  a  distinguished  American  statesman,  was  born 
in  Orange  county,  New  York,  May  16th,  1801.  In  1822  he  was  admitted  to 
the  bar,  and  soon  after  acquired  a  great  reputation  for  forensic  eloquence. 
He  has  held  many  important  public  oflSces,  and  now  (1862)  occupies  the 
chief  place  in  the  cabinet  at  Washington :  being  Secretary  of  State.  His 
papers  and  speeches,  which  are  numerous,  all  show  scholarly  taste  and  large 
attainment.     The  following  brief  description  is  one  of  his  happiest  efforts. 

LAST  WORDS  OF  JOHN  QUINCY  ADAMS. 

.    WILUAM   H.  SEWARD. 

1.  What  means,  then,  this  abrupt  and  fearful  silence?  What 
unlooked-for  calamity  has  quelled  the  debates  of  the  Senate,  and 
calmed  the  excitement  of  the  people  ?  An  old  man,  whose  tongue 
once,  indeed,  was  eloquent,  but  now,  through  age,  had  well- 
nigh  lost  its  cunning,  has  fallen  into  the  swoon  of  death.  He 
was  not  an  actor  in  the  drama  of  conquest,  nor  had  his  feeble 
voice  yet  mingled  in  the  lofty  argument : — 

"A  gray-haired  sir.e,  whose  eye  intent 
Was  on  the  visioned  future  bent." 

2.  In  the  very  act  of  rising  to  debate,  he  fell  into  the  arma 
»f  Conscript  Fathers  *  of  the  Republic.  A  long  lethargy  super- 
vened and  oppressed  his  senses.  Nature  rallied  the  wasting 
powers,  on  the  verge  of  the  grave,  for  a  brief  space.  But  it 
was  long  enough  for  him.     The  rekindled  eye  showed  that  the 

*  The  old  Roman  designation  of  the  Senators. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  56G 

re-collected  mind  was  clear,  calm,  and  vigorous.  His  "wecjing 
family,  and  his  sorrowing  compeers,  were  there.  lie  surveyed 
the  scene,  and  knew  at  once  its  fatal  import.  He  had  left  no 
duty  unperformed;  he  had  no  wish  unsatisfied;  no  ambition 
unattained-  no  regret,  no  sorrow,  no  fear,  no  remorse.  He 
coulc  not  shake  off  the  dews  of  death,  that  gathered  on  his 
brow  He  could  not  pierce  the  thick  shades  that  rose  up  before 
him. 

3  But  he  knew  that  eternity  lay  close  by  the  shores  of  time. 
He  knew  that  his  Redeemer  lived.  Eloquence,  even  in  that 
hour,  inspired  him  with  his  ancient  sublimity  of  utterance. 
"  This,"  said  the  dying  man,  "  This  is  the  end  of  earth.'* 
He  paused  for  a  moment,  and  then  added, — "  I  am  content." 
Angels  might  well  draw  aside  the  curtains  of  the  skies  to  look 
down  on  such  a  scene, — a  scene  that  approximated  even  to  that 
scene  of  unapproachable  sublimity,  not  to  be  recalled  without 
reverence,  when  in  mortal  agony.  One  who  spake  as  never  man 
spake,  said, — "  It  is  finished  V 


EXERCISE  CLXXIV. 
GOD    AND    HEAVEN. 

The  silver  cord  in  twain  is  snapped. 

The  golden  bowl  is  broken. 
The  mortal  mold  in  darkness  wrapped, 

The  words  funereal  spoken ; 
The  tomb  is  built,  or  the  rock  is  cleft, 

Or  delved  is  the  grassy  clod, 
And  what  for  mourning  man  is  left  ? 

0,  what  is  left — but  Grod  I 

II. 

The  tears  are  shed  that  mourned  the  dead, 
The  flowers  they  wore,  are  faded  • 


664  SANDERS'    UNION     SERIES 

The  twilight  dew  hath  vailed  the  sun, 
And  hope's  sweet  dreamings  shaded ; 

And  the  thoughts  of  joy  that  were  planted  deep, 
From  our  heart  of  hearts  are  riven ; 

And  what  is  left  us  when  we  wee^  ? 
0,  what  is  left — but  Heaven  ? 


EXERCISE  CLXXV 

Ralph  Waldo  Emekson  was  born  in  Boston,  on  the  25th  of  May,  18U3. 
1  hough  passable,  as  a  pupil,  he  does  not  appear  ever  to  have  been  solicitous 
about  distinction  in  his  school  and  college  career.  In  1826,  after  having 
taught  school  for  some  four  or  five  years,  he  was  licensed  to  preach  in  the 
Unitarian  Church;  which  connection,  however,  in  1832,  was  dissolved  at  his 
own  request.  Since  that  time,  his  life  has  been  devoted  mainly  to  literature. 
He  is  the  author  of  many  brilliant  lectures,  many  admirable  essays,  and  many 
beautiful  poems.  "As  a  writer,"  says  one  who  seems  to  us  to  have  reached  a 
full  appreciation  of  his  character,  "  he  is  distinguished  for  a  singular  union 
of  poetic  imagination  with  practical  acuteness.  His  vision  takes  a  wide  sweep 
in  the  realms  of  the  ideal;  but  is  no  less  firm  and  penetrating  in  the  sphere 
of  facts.  His  common  sense  shrewdness  is  vivified  by  a  pervasive  wit.  Ho 
seldom  indulges  in  the  expression  of  sentiment,  and,  in  his  nature,  emotion 
seems  to  be  less  the  product  of  the  heart  than  of  the  brain.  His  style  is  in 
the  nicest  harmony  with  the  character  of  his  thought.  It  is  condensed  almost 
to  abruptness.  His  merits,  as  a  writer,  consist  rather  in  the  choice  of  words 
than  in  the  connection  of  sentences.  But  the  great  characteristic  of  hie 
intellect  is  the  perception  and  sentiment  of  beauty." 

EACH  AND  ALL. 

RALPH  WALDO  FMEB80K. 
I. 

Little  thinks,  in  the  field,  yon  red-cloaked  clown, 

Of  thee  from  the  hill-top  looking  down ; 

The  heifer  that  lows  in  the  upland  farm, 

Far-heard,  lows  not  thine  ear  to  charm; 

The  sexton,  tolling  his  bell  at  noou, 

Deems  not  that  great  Napoleon 

Stops  hi&  horse,  and  lists  with  delight, 

Whilst  his  files  sweep  round  yon  Alpine  hight , 

Nor  knowest  thou  what  argument 

Thy  life  to  thy  neighbor's  creed  has  lent. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  565 

All  are  needed  by  each  one — 

Nothing  in  fair  or  good  alone! 

I  thought  the  sparrow's  note  from  Heaven, 

Singing  at  dawn  on  the  alder  bough ; 

I  brought  him  home,  in  his  nest,  at  even, 

He  sings  the  song,  but  it  pleases  not  now  ; 

For  I  did  not  bring  him  home  the  river  and  sky; 

He  sang  to  my  ear — they  sang  to  my  eye. 

II. 

The  delicate  shells  lay  on  the  shore  j 

The  bubbles  of  the  latest  wave 

Fresh  pearls  to  their  enamel  gave ; 

And  the  bellowing  of  the  savage  sea 

Greeted  their  safe  escape  to  me. 

I  wiped  away  the  weeds  and  foam — 

I  fetched  my  sea-born  treasures  home  ] 

But  the  poor,  unsightly,  noisome  things 

Had  left  their  beauty  on  the  shore, 

With  the  sun,  and  the  sand,  and  the  wild  uproar 

III. 

The  lover  watched  his  graceful  maid, 

As  'mid  the  virgin  train  she  strayed ; 

Nor  knew  her  beauty's  best  attire 

Was  woven  still  by  that  snow-white  choir; 

At  last,  she  came  to  his  hermitage. 

Like  the  bird  from  the  woodlands  to  the  cage  j 

The  gay  enchantment  was  undone — 

A  gentle  wife,  hw.t  fairy  none. 

IV. 
Then  T  said, — "  I  covet  truth; 
Beauty  is  unripe  childhood's  cheat — 
I  leave  it  behind  with  the  games  of  youth." 
As  I  spoke,  beneath  my  feet 
The  ground-pine  curled  its  pretty  wreath, 
Runninsr  over  the  club-moss  burrs  • 


•)66  SANDERS'    ONION    SEBIES. 

I  inhaled  the  violet's  breath  ; 

x\round  me  stood  the  oaks  and  firs; 

Pine-cones  and  acorns  lay  on  the  ground ; 

Over  me  soared  the  eternal  sky, 

Full  of  light  and  of  deity ; 

Again  I  saw,  again  I  heard. 

The  rolling  river,  the  morning  bird  j 

Beauty  through  my  senses  stole — 

I  yielded  myself  to  the  perfect  whole. 


EXERCISE  CLXXVI. 

Homer,  the  great  father  of  epic  poetry,  was  born,  according  to  the  best 
accounts,  in  Smyrna,  and  flourished  about  nine  hundred  years  before  Christ. 
His  chief  works  are  the  "  Iliad"  and  the  "  Odyssey."  The  former  has  for  its 
subject  the  wrath  of  Achilles,  a  great  Grecian  warrior,  who,  in  retaliation  for 
a  wrong  done  him  by  the  Commander-in-chief  of  the  Grecian  forces,  with- 
draws from  the  contest,  and  thereby  brings  the  most  calamitous  consequences 
upon  the  armies  of  his  countrymen.  The  latter  is  an  account,  full  of  strange 
incidents,  of  the  return  of  Ulysses,  another  Grecian  hero,  to  Ithaca,  his 
native  plaje,  after  the  overthrow  of  Troy.  The  "  Iliad"  is  allowed  to  be  the 
superior  work;  but  both  of  them  bear  the  impress  of  a  master  hand,  such, 
indeed,  as  seldom  appears  in  the  lapse  of  centuries. 

Hector,  the  chief  hero  of  the  Trojans,  in  their  ten  years'  war  with  the 
Greeks,  was  the  eldest  son  of  Priam,  king  of  Troy.  The  scene  which  we 
have  given  below,  is  justly  regarded  as  one  of  the  most  delicate  and  beautiful 
in  the  whole  Iliad.  He  has  just  left  the  field  of  contest  for  a  brief  space,  at  a 
moment  when  the  onset  of  the  Greeks  seems  almost  irresistible,  in  order  to 
request  the  queen,  his  mother,  to  pray  to  the  goddess  Minerva  for  assistance. 
This  done,  he  seeks  a  momentary  interview  with  his  wife,  the  fair  and  virtuous 
Andromache,  whose  touching  appeal  is,  perhaps,  without  a  parallel  in  tender« 
natural  solicitude. 

PARTING  OF  HECTOR  AND  ANDROMACHE. 

pope's  HOMBB'S  tUAO. 

r. 

Too  daring  prince  !  ah,  whither  dost  thou  run  ? 
Ah  I  too  forgetful  of  thy  wife  and  son  ! 
And  think'st  thou  not  how  wretched  we  shall  be, 
A  widow  I,  a  helpless  orphan  he  ! 


RHETORICAL    READER.  567 

For  sure  such  courage  length  of  Hfe  denies, 
And  thou  must  fall,  thy  virtue's  sacrifice. 
Greece  in  her  single  heroes  strove  in  vain , 
Now  hosts  oppose  thee,  and  thou  must  be  slain  I 
0,  grant  me,  gods !  ere  Hector  meets  his  doom, 
All  I  can  ask  of  Heaven,  an  early  tomb  ! 
So  shall  my  days  in  one  sad  tenor  run, 
A.nd  end  with  sorrrows  as  they  first  begun. 

II. 

No  parent  now  remains  my  grief  to  share, 
No  father's  aid,  no  mother'^  tender  care. 
The  fierce  Achilles*  wrapped  our  walls  in  fire, 
Laid  Theb4  waste,  and  slew  my  warlike  sire  1 
His  fate  compassion  in  the  victor  bred ; 
Stern  as  he  was,  he  yet  revered  the  dead. 
His  radiant  arms  preserved  from  hostile  spoil, 
And  laid  him  decent  on  the  funeral  pile : 
Then  raised  a  mountain  where  his  bones  were  burned 
The  mountain  nymphs  the  rural  tomb  adorned  : 
Jove's  sylvan  daughters  bade  their  elms  bestow 
A  barren  shade,  and  in  his  honor  grow. 

III. 

By  the  same  arm  my  seven  brave  brothers  fell ; — 
[n  one  sad  day  beheld  the  gates  of  hell ; 
While  the  fat  herds  and  snowy  flocks  they  fed, 
Amid  their  fields  the  hapless  heroes  bled ! 
My  mother  lived  to  bear  the  victor's  bands. 
The  queen  of  Hypoplacia's  f  silver  lands ; 
Redeemed  too  late,  she  scarce  beheld  again 
Her  pleasing  empire  and  her  native  plain, 
When,  ah  !  oppressed  by  life- consuming  woe, 
She  fell  a  victim  to  Diana's  bow. 

*  Achilles  {a  kiV  les),  greatest  of  all  the  Grecian  warriors, 
f  Hypoplacia  {hi/  po  pld'  cm)  is  but  another  name  for  Thebe  (Me^  h*\ 
in  Asia  Minor,  the  birthplace  of  Andromache. 


568  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES. 

IV. 

Yet,  while  my  Hector  still  survives,  I  see 
My  father,  mother,  brethren,  all  in  thee; 
Alas  !  my  parents,  brothers,  kindred,  all 
Once  more  will  perish,  if  my  Hector  fall. 
Thy  wife,  thy  infant,  in  thy  danger  share ; 
0,  prove  a  husband's  and  a  father's  care ! 
That,  quarter  most  the  skillful  Greeks  annoy, 
Where  yon  wild  fig-trees  join  the  walls  of  Troy; 
Thou  from  this  tower  defend  the  important  post ; 
There  Agamemnon  *  points  his  dreadful  host ; 
That  pass  Tydides,f  Ajax,*)*  strive  to  gain. 
And  there  the  vengeful  Spartan  fires  his  train. 
Thrice  our  bold  foes  the  fierce  attack  have  given, 
Or  led  by  hopes,  or  dictated  from  Heaven 
Let  others  in  the  field  their  arms  employ. 
But  stay  my  Hector  here,  and  guard  his  Troy- 

V. 

The  chief  replied  :  That  post  shall  be  my  earn, 
Not  thai  alone,  but  all  the  works  of  war. 
How  would  the  sons  of  Troy,  in  arms  renowned, 
And  Troy's  proud  dames,  whose  garments  sweep  the  giound, 
Attaint  the  luster  of  my  former  name, 
Should  Hector  basely  quit  the  field  of  fame  I 
My  early  youth  was  bred  t )  martial  pains. 
My  soul  impels  me  to  the  embattled  plains; 
Let  me  be  foremost  to  defend  the  throne. 
And  guard  my  father's  glories  and  my  own. 

VI. 

Yet  come  it  will,  the  day  decreed  by  fates ; 
(How  my  heart  trembles  while  my  tongue  relates !) 
The  day  when  thou,  imperial  Troy !  must  bend, 
And  see  thy  warriors  fall,  thy  glories  end, 

*  Agamemnon  i^ag  a  mem^  non)  was  the  commander-in-chief  of  th , 
Greek  forces. 

I  Tydides  {ty  d^'  des),  or  DI'  o  made,  son  of  Tydeiis  (ty  duce),  and  AjaY, 
were  two  Grecian  heroes,  next  in  courage  to  Achilles. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  5tt$ 

And  yet  no  dire  presage  so  wounds  my  mind, 
My  mother's  death,  the  ruin  of  my  kind, 
Not  Priam's  hoary  hairs  defiled  with  gore, 
Not  all  my  brothers  gasping  on  the  shore, 
As  thine,  Andromache !  *  thy  griefs  I  dread. 

VII. 

I  see  thee  trembling,  weeping,  captive  led  I 
In  Argive  f  looms  our  battles  to  design, 
And  woes,  of  which  so  large  a  part  was  thine  I 
To  bear  the  victor's  hard  commands,  or  bring 
The  weight  of  waters  from  Hyperia's|  spring. 
There,  while  you  groan  beneath  the  load  of  life, 
They  cry  :  "  Behold  the  mighty  Hector's  wife  !" 
Some  haughty  Greek,  who  lives  thy  tears  to  ^«e, 
Embitters  all  thy  woes  by  naming  me. 
The  thoughts  of  glory  past,  and  present  shame, 
A  thousand  griefs  shall  waken  at  the  name  I 
May  I  lie  cold  before  that  dreadful  day. 
Pressed  with  a  load  of  monumental  clay ! 
Thy  Hector,  wrapt  in  everlasting  sleep. 
Shall  neither  hear  thee  sigh,  nor  see  thee  weep. 

VIII. 

Thus  having  spoke,  the  illustrious  chief  of  Troy 
Stretched  his  fond  arms  to  clasp  the  lovely  boy. 
The  babe  clung  crying  to  his  nurse's  breast. 
Scared  at  the  dazzling  helm  and  nodding  crest. 
With  secret  pleasure  each  fond  parent  smiled, 
And  Hector  hasted  to  relieve  his  child ; 
The  glittering  terrors  from  his  brows  unbound, 
And  placed  the  beaming  helmet  on  the  ground. 
Then  kissed  the  child,  and,  lifting  high  in  air, 
Thus  to  the  gods  preferred  a  father's  prayer : — 

*  Andromache  (an  drom^  a  ke),  wife  of  Hector. 

f  Argive  {ar^  jive),  Grecian;  so  called  from  Argos,  one  of  the  prin* 
Bipal  cities  of  Greece. 

i  Hyperia  {hyp  l'  ria),  a  fountain  of  Thessalj. 


^70  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES. 

IX. 

0  tliou !  whose  glory  fills  the  ethereal  throne, 
And  all  ye  deathless  powers  !  protect  my  son  ! 
Grant  him,  like  me,  to  purchase  just  renown, 
To  guard  the  Trojans,  to  defend  the  crown. 
Against  his  country's  foes  the  war  to  wage, 
And  rise  the  Hector  of  the  future  age ! 
So  when  triumphant  from  successful  toils. 
Of  heroes  slain  he  bears  the  reeking  spoils, 
Whole  hosts  may  hail  him  with  deserved  acclaim, 
And  say  :  "  This  chief  transcends  his  father's  fame  f* 
While  pleased,  amidst  the  general  shouts  of  Troy 
His  mother's  conscious  heart  o'erflows  with  joy. 

X. 

He  spoke,  and  fondly  gazing  on  her  charms, 
Restored  the  pleasing  burden  to  her  arms; 
Soft  on  her  fragrant  breast  the  babe  he  laid. 
Hushed  to  repose,  and  with  a  smile  surveyed. 
The  troubled  pleasure  soon  chastised  by  fear, 
She  mingled  with  the  smile  a  tender  tear. 
The  softened  chief  with  kind  compassion  viewed. 
And  dried  the  falling  drops,  and  thus  pursued  :— 

XI. 

Andromache  !  my  soul's  far  better  part ! 
Why  with  untimely  sorrows  heaves  thy  heart  ? 
No  hostile  hand  can  antedate  my  doom. 
Till  fate  condemns  me  to  the  silent  tomb. 
Fixed  is  the  term  to  all  the  race  of  earth  j 
And,  such  the  hard  condition  of  our  birth, 
No  force  can  then  resis^.,  no  flight  can  save ; 
All  sink  alike,  the  fearful  and  the  brave. 
No  more — but  hasten  to  thy  tasks  at  home. 
There  guide  the  spindle,  and  direct  the  loom  j 
Me  glory  summons  to  the  martial  scene ; 
The  field  of  combat  is  the  sphere  for  men ; 
Where  heroes  war,  the  foremost  place  I  claim, 
The  first  in  danger,  as  the  first  in  fame. 


RHETOKICAL    READER.  671 


EXERCISE  CLXXVII. 

Henry  Clay,  one  of  America's  most  illustrious  men,  was  born  in  Hanover 
county,  Virginia,  April  ]2th,  1777,  and  died  in  Wasliington  city,  June  29th, 
1852.  His  father,  a  Baptist  clergyman,  died  in  1782 :  leaving  seven  children, 
of  whom  Henry  was  the  fifth.  The  circumstances  of  the  family  being  very 
moderate,  the  education  of  the  children  was  necessarily  very  limiteJ  In 
1792  his  mother,  having  married  again,  emigrated  with  her  husband  to  Km 
tacky :  taking  with  her  all  the  children  except  Henry  and  his  eldest  brotliei 
He  never  saw  her  afterwards ;  but  went  to  live  in  Richmond.  There,  follow 
ing  his  tastes,  he  finally  got  a  clerkship  in  a  law  oflBce,  and,  for  the  direction 
of  his  studies,  had  the  good  fortune  to  receive,  and  the  good  sense  to  follow 
the  counsels  of  the  eminent  Chancellor  Wythe,  for  whom  he  acted  as  an 
amanuensis.  In  1797  he  was  licensed  to  practice  law,  and  soon  after  emi- 
grated to  Kentucky.  He  commenced  business  in  Lexington.  "  Immediately," 
he  says  himself,  he  "rushed  into  a  lucrative  practice."  Thenceforth  his 
career  was  one  of  almost  unexampled  honor  and  usefulness.  Few  have  ever 
taken  so  strong  a  hold  upon  the  hearts  of  the  people,  few  have  been  by  them 
more  implicitly  trusted  in  places  of  power  and  responsibility,  and  few  have 
ever  so  well  deserved  their  confidence.  "  If  I  were  to  write  his  epitaph," 
said  a  life-long  political  adversary,  in  the  House  of  Representatives,  "I 
would  inscribe,  as  the  highest  eulogy,  on  the  stone  which  shall  mark  his 
resting-place  : — '  Here  lies  a  man  who  was  in  the  public  service  for  fifty  years, 
and  never  attempted  to  deceive  his  countrymen  !' " 


FAREWELL  ADDRESS  TO  THE  SENATE. 


HENRY   CLAY. 


1.  From  1806,  the  period  of  my  entrance  upon  this  noble 
theater,  with  short  intervals,  to  the  present  time,  I  have  been 
engaged  in  the  public  councils,  at  home  or  abroad.  Of  the 
services  rendered  during  that  long  and  arduous  period  of  my 
life,  it  does  not  become  me  to  speak ;  history,  if  she  deign  to 
notice  me,  and  posterity,  if  the  recollection  of  my  humble  actions 
shall  be  transmitted  to  posterity,  are  the  best,  the  truest,  and 
the  most  impartial  judges.  When  death  has  closed  the  scene, 
their  sentence  will  be  pronounced,  and  to  that  I  commit  myself. 

2.  During  that  long  period,  however,  I  have  not  escaped  the 
fate  of  other  public  men,  nor  failed  to  incur  censure  and  detrac- 
tion of  the  bitterest,  most  unrelenting,  and  most  malignant 
character;  and,  taough  not  always  insensible  to  the  pain  it  was 
meant  to  inflict,  I  have  borne  it,  in  general,  with  composure,  and 
without  disturbance,  waiting,  as  T  have  done,  in  perfect  and 
andoubting  confidence,  for  the  ultimate  triumph  of  justice  and 


572  SANDERS'     UNION    SERIES. 

of  truth,  and  in  the  entire  persuasion  that  time  would  settle  all 
things  as  they  should  be,  and  that,  whatever  wrong  or  injustice 
I  might  experience  at  the  hands  of  man.  He  to  whom  all  hearts 
are  open  and  fully  known,  would,  by  the  inscrutable  dispensations 
of  His  providence,  rectify  all  error,  redress  all  wrong,  and  cause 
ample  justice  to  be  done. 

3.  But  I  have  not,  meanwhile,  been  unsustained.  Every- 
where throughout  the  extent  of  this  great  continent,  I  have  had 
cordial,  warm-hearted,  faithful,  and  devoted  friends,  who  have 
known  me,  loved  me,  and  appreciated  my  motives.  To  them, 
if  language  were  capable  of  fully  expressing  my  acknowledg- 
ments, I  would  now  offer  all  the  return  I  have  the  power  to 
make  for  their  genuine,  disinterested,  and  persevering  fidelity 
and  devoted  attachment,  the  feelings  and  sentiments  of  a  heart 
overflowing  with  never-ceasing  gratitude.  If,  however,  I  fail  in 
suitable  language  to  express  my  gratitude  to  them  for  all  the 
kindness  they  have  shown  me,  what  shall  I  say,  what  can  I  say 
at  all  commensurate  with  those  feelings  of  gratitude  with  which 
I  have  been  inspired  by  the  State  whose  humble  representative 
and  servant  I  have  been  in  this  chamber  ? 

4.  I  emigrated  from  Virginia  to  the  state  of  Kentucky,  now, 
nearly  forty-five  years  ago ;  I  went  as  an  orphan  boy  who  had 
not  yet  attained  the  age  of  majority  j  who  had  never  recognized 
a  father's  smile,  nor  felt  his  warm  caresses ;  poor,  penniless, 
without  the  favor  of  the  great,  with  an  imperfect  and  neglected 
education,  hardly  sufficient  for  the  ordinary  business  and  common 
pursuits  of  life ;  but  scarce  had  I  set  my  foot  upon  her  generous 
soil,  when  I  was  embraced  with  parental  fondness,  caressed  as 
though  I  had  been  a  favorite  child,  and  patronized  with  liberal 
and  unbounded  munificence. 

5.  From  that  period  the  highest  honors  of  the  State  have  ])een 
freely  bestowed  upon  me;  and,  when,  in  the  darkest  hour  of 
calumny  and  detraction,  I  seemed  to  be  assailed  by  all  the  lest 
of  the  world,  she  interposed  her  broad  and  ii.  penetrable  shield, 
repelled  the  poisoned  shafts  that  were  aimed  for  my  destruction, 
and  vindicated  my  good  name  from  every  malignant  and  unfounded 
aspersion.     I  return  with  indescribable  pleasure  to  linger  a  while 


RHETORICAL    READER.  573 

longer,  and  mingle  with  the  warm-hearted  and  whole-souled 
people  of  that  state ;  and  when  the  last  scene  shall  forever  close 
upon  me,  I  hope  that  my  earthly  remains  will  be  laid  under  her 
green  sod  with  those  of  her  gallant  and  patriotic  sons. 

6.  In  the  course  of  a  long  and  arduous  public  service,  espe- 
iMally  during  the  last  eleven  years  in  which  I  have  held  a  seat 
in  the  Senate,  from  the  same  ardor  and  enthusiasm  of  character, 
I  have  no  doubt,  in  the  heat  of  debate,  and  in  an  honest  endeavor 
to  maintain  my  opinions  against  adverse  opinions  alike  honestly 
entertained,  as  to  the  best  course  to  be  adopted  for  the  public 
welfare,  I  may  have  often  inadvertently  and  unintentionally,  in 
moments  of  excited  debate,  made  use  of  language  that  has  been 
offensive,  and  susceptible  of  injurious  interpretation,  toward  my 
brother  senators.  If  there  be  any  here  who  retain  wounded 
feelings  of  injury  or  dissatisfaction,  produced  on  such  occasions, 
I  beg  to  assure  them  that  I  now  offer  the  most  ample  apology 
for  any  departure  on  my  part  from  the  established  rules  of  par- 
liamentary decorum  and  courtesy.  On  the  other  hand,  I  assure 
senators,  one  and  all,  without  exception  and  without  reserve, 
that  I  retire  from  this  chamber  without  carrying  with  me  a  single 
feeling  of  resentment  or  dissatisfaction  to  the  Senate  or  any  of 
its  members. 

7.  I  go  from  this  place  under  the  hope  that  we  shall  mutually 
consign  to  perpetual  oblivion  whatever  personal  collisions  may, 
at  any  time,  unfortunately  have  occurred  between  us ;  and  that 
our  recollections  shall  dwell  in  future  only  on  those  conflicts  of 
mind  with  mind,  those  intellectual  struggles,  those  noble  exhi- 
bitions of  the  powers  of  logic,  argument,  and  eloquence,  hon- 
orable to  the  Senate  and  to  the  nation,  in  which  each  has  sought 
and  contended  for  what  he  deemed  the  best  mode  of  accom- 
plishing one  common  object,  the  interest  and  the  best  happiness 
of  our  beloved  country.  To  these  thrilling  and  delightful  scenes, 
it  will  be  my  pleasure  and  my  pride  to  look  back,  on  my  retire- 
ment, with  unmeasured  satisfaction 


574  SANDERS'     UNiuN     SERIES. 

EXERCISE  CLXXVIII. 

Batard  Taylor  was  born  in  Chester  county,  Pennsylvania,  January  11th, 
1825.  While  yet  an  apprentice  in  a  printing-office,  he  occupied  his  leisure 
hours  in  literary  studies,  and  in  occasional  compositions  for  the  periodical? 
of  the  day.  In  1844  he  published  his  early  poems  in  a  volume  under  the 
title  "  Ximena."  Soon  after  he  commenced  that  remarkable  career  of  travel 
which  has  made  him  an  eye-witness  to  the  ways  of  life  in  almost  every  region 
of  the  globe,  and  the  records  of  which,  embodied  in  books  of  enduring 
interest,  have  given  him  a  most  favorable  reception  in  the  whole  reading 
world.     His  manner  is  well  shown  in  the  following  specimen. 

THE  MIDNIGHT  SUN. 

BAYARD  TAYLOR. 

1.  As  wf  crossed  the  mouth  of  the  Ulvsfjord*  that  evening, 
we  had  an  open  sea  horizon  toward  the  north,  a  clear  sky,  and 
so  much  sunshine,  at  eleven  o'clock,  that  it  was  evident  the  Polar 
day  had  dawned  upon  us  at  last.  The  illuminatioa  of  the  shores 
was  unearthly  in  its  glory,  and  the  wonderful  efiFects  of  the 
orange  sunlight,  playing  upon  the  dark  hues  of  the  island  cliffs, 
can  neither  be  told  nor  painted.  The  sun  hung  low  between 
Fugloe,  rising  like  a  double  dome  from  the  sea,  aD*'  the  tall 
mountains  of  Arnoe,  both  of  which  islands  resemble-"'  immense 
masses  of  transparent  purple  glass,  gradually  meltinp-  into  crim- 
son fire  at  their  bases. 

2.  The  glassy,  leaden-colored  sea  was  powdered  w\L  a. golden 
bloom,  and  the  tremendous  precipices  at  the  mouth  of  the  Lyngen 
Fjord,  behind  us,  were  steeped  in  a  dark-red,  mellow  flush,  and 
touched  with  pencilings  of  pure,  rose-colored  light,  until  their 
naked  ribs  seemed  to  be  clothed  in  imperial  velvet.  As  we 
turned  into  the  Fjord  and  ran  southward  along  their  bases,  a 
waterfall,  struck  by  the  sun,  fell  in  fiery  orange  foam  down  the 
red  walls,  and  the  blue  ice-pillars  of  a  beautiful  glacier  filled 
np  the  ravine  beyond  it.  We  were  all  on  deck ;  and  all  fares, 
excited  by  the  divine  splendor  of  the  scene,  and  tinged  by  the 
same  wonderful  aureole,f  shone  as  if  transfigured.  In  my  wliolo 
life  I  have  never  seen  a  spectacle  so  unearthly  beautit"^il. 

*  Ulvsfiord  {ulvs  fe  ord')  is  a  bay  lying  to  the  east  of  Trymsoe,  an 
island  of  Norway.  The  latter  part  of  this  word  [fiord  or  fjord)  sigDifies 
a  bay  or  estuary  and  makes  part  of  many  compounds. 

f  A.u''reole,  or  aureola  {au  re'  o  la),  a  circle  of  golden  rays. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  075 

3.  Our  course  brought  the  sun  rapidly  toward  the  ruby  cliflfs 
of  Arnoe,  and  it  was  evident  that  he  would  soon  be  hidden  from 
sight.  ]t  was  not  yet  half-past  eleven,  and  an  enthusiastic  pas 
senger  begged  the  captain  to  stop  the  vessel  until  midnight. 
"Why,"  said  the  latter,  "it  is  midnight  now,  or  very  near  itj 
you  have  Drontheim  time,  which  is  almost  forty  minutes  in 
arrears  "  True  enough,  the  real  time  lacked  but  five  minutes 
of  mianight,  and  those  of  us  who  had  sharp  eyes  and  strong 
imaginations  saw  the  sun  make  his  last  dip  and  rise  a  little, 
before  he  vanished  in  a  blaze  of  glory  behind  Arnoe.  I  turned 
away  with  eyes  full  of  dazzling  spheres  of  crimson  and  gold, 
which  danced  before  me  wherever  I  looked;  and  it  was  a  long 
time  before  they  were  blotted  out  by  the  semi-oblivion  of  a  day- 
light sleep. 

EXERCISE  CLXXIX. 

Jambs  Bbattie  was  born  in  Kincardineshire,  Scotland,  October  25th,  1735, 
and  died  at  Aberdeen,  August  18th,  1803.  Through  the  aid  of  an  elder 
brother, — for  his  father  died  while  he  was  yet  a  child, — he  succeeded  in 
getting  a  good  education,  and  afterwards  spent  some  time  in  the  business  of 
teaching.  In  1771  he  began  the  publication  of  "The  Minstrel,"  a  didactic 
poem,  showing  the  rise  and  progress  of  a  poetical  genius;  which  work  is  the 
basis,  in  fact,  of  his  reputation,  as  a  poet.  This  poem,  which  is  very  unequal, 
both  in  thought  and  expression,  though  embracing  some  stanzas  of  surpassing 
force  and  beauty,  was  nevei  finislied.  But  that  which  secured  for  him  the 
highest  credit,  was  his  celebrated  "  Essay  on  Truth,"  published  before  this 
time,  and  intended,  as  a  reply,  to  the  cold  and  subtle  skepticism  of  David 
Hume.  Among  his  later  productions  are  "  Dissertations,  Moral  and  Critical," 
*'  Evidences  of  the  Christian  Religion,"  "  Elements  of  Moral  Science,"  and  s 
biography  of  his  eldest  son. 

OPENING  STANZAS  OF  THE  MINSTREL. 

BEATTIB 
I. 

Ah !  who  can  tell  how  hard  it  is  to  climb 

The  steep  where  Fame's  proud  temple  shines  afar; 

Ah !  who  can  tell  how  many  a  soul  sublime 

Has  felt  the  influence  of  malignant  star, 

And  waged  with  Fortune  an  eternal  war; 

Checked  by  the  scoff  of  Pride,  by  Envy's  frown, 

And  Poverty's  unconquerable  bar. 

In  life's  low  vale  remote  has  pined  alone, 

Then  dropped  into  the  grave,  unpitjed  and  unknown  ! 


576  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES 

II. 

And  yet  the  languor  of  inglorious  days 

Not  equally  oppressive  is  to  all ; 

Him,  who  ne'er  listened  to  the  voice  of  praise, 

The  silence  of  neglect  can  ne'er  appall. 

There  are,  who,  deaf  to  mad  Ambition's  call, 

Would  shrink  to  hear  the  obstreperous  trump  of  Fame  I 

•Suoremely  blest,  if  to  their  portion  fall 

Health,  competence,  and  peace.     Nor  higher  aim 

Had  he,  whose  simple  tale  these  artless  lines  proclaim. 

III. 

Liberal,  not  lavish,  is  kind  Nature's  hand ; 

Nor  was  perfection  made  for  man  below. 

Yet  all  her  schemes  with  nicest  art  are  planned. 

Good  counteracting  ill,  and  gladness  woe. 

With  gold  and  gems,  if  Chilian  mountain  glow; 

If  bleak  and  barren  Scotia's  hills  arise ; 

TTiere  plague  and  poison,  lust  and  rapine  grow ; 

Here  peaceful  are  the  vales,  and  pure  the  skies, 

And  freedom  fires  the  soul,  and  sparkles  in  the  eyes. 

IV. 

Then  grieve  not  thou,  to  whom  the  indulgent  Muse 
Vouchsafes  a  portion  of  celestial  fire : 
Nor  blame  the  partial  Fates,  if  they  refuse 
The  imperial  banquet  and  the  rich  attire. 
Know  thine  own  worth,  and  reverence  the  lyre. 
Wilt  thou  debase  the  heart  which  God  refined  ? 
No ;  let  thy  Heaven-taught  soul  to  Heaven  aspire, 
To  fancy,  freedom,  harmony,  resigned ; 
Ambition's  groveling  crew  forever  left  behind. 

V. 

0,  how  canst  thou  renounce  the  boundless  store 
Of  charms  which  Nature  to  her  votary  yields  I 
The  warbling  woodland,  the  resounding  shore, 
The  pomp  of  groves,  and  garniture  of  fields ; 


RHETORICAL    READER.  577 

A.11  that  the  genial  ray  of  morning  gilds, 

And  all  that  echoes  to  the  song  of  even, 

All  that  the  mountain's  sheltering  bosom  shields, 

And  all  the  dread  magnificence  of  heaven, — 

0,  how  canst  thou  renounce,  and  hope  to  be  forgiven  ? 


EXERCISE  CLXXX. 

Charles  Sttmner  was  born  in  Boston  in  1811.  He  ia  distinguished  foi 
large  legal  attainment,  and  for  remarkable  grace  and  skill  as  an  orator  and  a 
writer.  He  is  now  (1862)  a  member  of  the  Senate  of  the  United  States.  The 
following  is  from  his  address  before  the  American  Peace  Society,  at  their 
anniversary  in  Boston,  May  28th,  1849. 

THE  BLESSING  OF  PEACE. 

CHARIiES    aUMNXH. 

1.  Peace  is  tlie  grand  Christian  charity,  the  fountain  and 
parent  of  all  other  charities.  Let  peace  be  removed,  and  fJI 
other  charities  sicken  and  die.  Let  peace  exert  her  gladsome 
Bway,  and  all  other  charities  quicken  into  celestial  life.  Peace 
is  a  distinctive  promise  and  possession  of  Christianity.  So  much 
is  this  the  case,  that,  where  peace  is  not,  Christianity  can  not  be. 

2.  There  is  nothing  elevated  which  is  not  exalted  by  peace. 
There  is  nothing  valuable,  which  does  not  contribute  to  peace. 
Of  Wisdom  herself  it  has  been  said,  that  all  her  ways  are  pleasant- 
ness, and  all  her  paths  are  peace.  Peace  has  ever  been  the 
longing  and  aspiration  of  the  noblest  souls — whether  for  them- 
selves or  for  their  country. 

3.  In  the  bitterness  of  exile,  away  from  the  Florence  which 
he  has  immortalized  by  his  divine  poem,  pacing  the  cloisters  of 
a  convent,  in  response  to  the  inquiry  of  the  monk, — "  What  do 
you  seekf  Dante*  said,  in  words  distilled  from  his  heart, 
'^ Peace!  Peace P*  In  the  memorable  Enghsh  struggle,  when 
King  and  Parliament  were  rending  the  land,  a  gallant  supporter 
of  the  monarchy,  the  chivalrous  Falkland,  touched  by  the  in-i 
tolerable  woes  of  war,  cried  in  words  which  consecrate  his  memory 
more  than  any  feat  of  arms, — '■'■Peace!  Peace!  Peace!" 

*  See  Note  on  Exercise  CXXXVII. 
25  6  R 


&78  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES. 

4.  Not  in  aspiration  only,  but  in  benediction,  is  this  word 
uttered.  As  the  apostle  went  forth  on  his  errand,  as  the  son  left 
his  father's  roof,  the  choicest  blessing  was, — ^^  Peace  he  with  you!'* 
As  the  Savior  was  bom,  angels  froin  Heaven,  amidst  quiring 
melodies,  let  fall  that  supreme  benediction,  never  before  vouoh- 
safed  to  the  children  of  the  human  family, — Peace  on  earth  and 
yood-ivill  toward  men  ! 


EXERCISE  CLXXXI. 

REQiHAi,D  Heber,  the  celebrated  bishop  of  Calcutta,  yr&s  bom  in  Cheshire, 
England,  April  21st,  1783,  and  died  in  Madras,  April  3d,  1826.  Evincing, 
even  in  childhood,  a  remarkable  fondness  for  learning,  he  lost  none  of  hia 
enthusiasm,  in  this  direction,  by  the  advance  of  life.  His  career  at  Oxford, 
where  he  took  his  degree,  was  singularly  brilliant:  being  distinguished, 
among  other  things,  by  his  famous  prize  poem  entitled  "  Palestine."  As  a 
poet,  he  is  most  remarkable  for  those  qualities  that  were  so  conspicuous  in 
his  character,  as  a  man,  namely,  gentleness,  benevolence,  devotional  feeling, 
and  the  vigor  that  comes  of  Christian  zeal. 

PASSAGES  FROM  BISHOP  HEBER. 

I. 

PICTURE   OF  PALESTINE. 

Reft  of  thy  sons,  amid  thy  foes  forlorn, 

Mourn,  widowed  queen  !  forgotten  Sion,  mourn ! 

Is  this  thy  place,  sad  city,  this  thy  throne, 

Where  the  wild  desert  rears  its  craggy  stone  ? 

While  suns  unblessed  their  angry  luster  fling, 

And  wayworn  pilgrim?  seek  the  scanty  spring  ? 

Where  now  thy  pomp,  which  kings  with  envy  viewed '( 

Where  now  thy  might,  which  all  those  kings  subdued  ? 

No  martial  myriads  muster  in  thy  gate; 

No  suppliant  nations  in  thy  temple  wait ; 

No  prophet-bards,  thy  glittering  courts  among, 

Wake  the  full  lyre,  and  swell  the  tide  of  song : 

But  lawless  Force,  and  meager  Want  are  th«»* 

And  the  quick-darting  eye  of  restless  Fear, 

While  cold  Oblivion,  'mid  thy  ruins  laid, 

Folds  his  dark  wing  beneath  the  ivy  shade 


RHETORICAL    READER.  579 

II. 

THE   LILIES   AND    THE   BIRDS.* 

I. 

Lo,  the  lilies  of  the  field, 

How  their  leaves  instruction  yield  I 

Hark  to  Nature's  lesson,  given 

By  the  blessed  birds  of  heaven  I 

Every  bush  and  tufted  tree 

Warbles  sweet  philosophy : 

"  Mortal,  fly  from  doubt  and  sorrow : 

God  provideth  for  the  morrow ! 

n. 

"  Say,  with  richer  crimson  glows 
The  kingly  mantle  than  the  rose  ? 
Say,  have  kings  more  wholesome  fare 
Than  we  poor  citizens  of  air  ? 
Barns  nor  hoarded  grain  have  we, 
Yet  we  carol  merrily. 
Mortal,  fly  from  doubt  and  sorrow : 
God  provideth  for  the  morrow  I 

III. 

"  One  there  lives,  whose  guardian  eye 
Guides  our  humble  destiny ; 
One  there  lives,  who.  Lord  of  all, 
Keeps  our  feathers  lest  they  fall. 
Pass  we  blithely  then  the  time, 
Fearless  of  the  snare  and  lime. 
Free  from  doubt  and  faithless  sorrow  . 
God  provideth  for  the  morrow  V 

*  Behold  the  fowls  of  the  air :  for  they  sow  not,  neither  do  they  reap, 
nor  gather  into  barns ;  yet  your  heavenly  Father  feedeth  them.  And 
why  take  ye  thought  for  raiment?  Consider  the  lilies,  &c.  See 
Matthew,  vi.,  v.  26  and  2S 


580  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES. 

III.       >, 
THE    MOONLIGHT    MARCH. 
I. 

I  see  them  on  their  winding  way, 
About  their  ranks  the  moonbeams  play  j 
Their  lofty  deeds  and  daring  high 
Blend  with  the  notes  of  victory. 
And  waving  arms,  and  banners  bright, 
Are  glancing  in  the  mellow  light : 
They're  lost — and  gone,  the  moon  is  past, 
The  wood's  dark  shade  is  o'er  them  cast  j 
And  fainter,  fainter,  fainter  still, 
The  march  is  rising  o'er  the  hill. 

II. 

Again,  again,  the  pealing  drum. 
The  clashing  horn — they  come,  they  come  I 
Through  rocky  pass,  o'er  wooded  steep 
In  long  and  glittering  files  they  sweep. 
And  nearer,  nearer,  yet  more  near, 
Their  softened  chorus  meets  the  ear ; 
Forth,  forth,  and  meet  them  on  their  way  I 
The  trampling  hoofs  brook  no  delay. 
With  thrilling  fife  and  pealing  drum. 
And  clashing  horn,  they  come,  they  come  I 


EXERCISE  CLXXXII. 

8par'tacus,  a  celebrated  gladiator,  by  birth  a  Thracian,  having 
escaped  from  the  training-school  for  gladiators  at  Capua,  and  collecled 
a  Iftnu  cf  daring  and  desperate  followers,  for  a  long  time  bade  defiance 
to  the  whole  power  of  Rome.  He  was,  at  last,  however,  defeated  by 
I'he  Romans  (b.  c.  71)  under  the  Praetor  Crassus,  but  not  without  a 
most  determined  and  deadly  struggle.  The  elements  that  entered  Lato 
the  constitution  of  thip  extraordinary  character,  are  finely  indicated  in 
the  following  piece. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  581 

SPARTACUS  TO  THE  GLADIATORS. 

E.    KELLOaa. 

1.  It  had  been  a  day  of  triumph  at  Capua.  Lentulus,  return- 
\ng  with  victorious  eagles,  had  amused  the  populace  with  the 
sports  of  the  amphitheater  to  an  extent  hitherto  unknown,  even 
in  that  luxurious  city.  The  shouts  of  revelry  had  died  away ; 
the  roar  of  the  lion  had  ceased ;  the  last  loiterer  had  retired  from 
the  banquet ;  and  the  lights  in  the  palace  of  the  victor  were 
extinguished.  The  moon  piercing  the  tissue  of  fleecy  clouds, 
silvered  the  dew-drops  on  the  corslet  of  the  Roman  sentinel,  and 
tipped  the  dark  waters  of  Vulturnus  with  a  wavy,  tremulous 
light. 

2.  No  sound  was  heard,  save  the  last  sob  of  some  retiring 
wave,  telling  its  story  to  the  smooth  pebbles  of  the  beach ;  and 
then  all  was  still  as  the  breast  wheu  the  spirit  has  departed.  Id 
the  deep  recesses  of  the  amphitheater,  a  band  of  gladiators  were 
assembled ;  their  muscles  still  knotted  with  the  agony  of  conflict, 
the  foam  upon  their  lips,  the  scowl  of  battle  yet  lingering  on 
their  brows;  when  Spartacus,  starting  forth  from  amid  the 
throng,  thus  addressed  them  : — "  Ye  call  me  chief;  and  ye  do 
well  to  call  him  chief  who,  for  twelve  long  years,  has  met  upon 
the  arena  every  shape  of  man  or  beast  the  broad  empire  of 
Rome  could  furnish,  and  who  never  yet  lowered  his  arm.  If 
there  be  one  among  you,  who  can  say,  that  ever,  in  public  fight 
or  private  brawl,  my  actions  did  belie  my  tongue,  let  him  stand 
forth  and  say  it.  If  there  be  three,  in  all  your  company,  dare 
face  me  on  the  bloody  sands,  let  them  come  on.  And  yet  I  was 
not  always  thus, — a  hired  butcher,  a  savage  chief  of  still  more 
savage  men  !  My  ancestors  came  from  old  Sparta,  and  settled 
among  the  vine-clad  rocks  and  citron  groves  of  Syrasella.  My 
early  life  ran  quiet  as  the  brooks  by  which  I  sported ;  and,  when, 
at  noon,  t  gathered  the  sheep  beneath  the  shade,  and  played 
upon,  the  shepherd's  flute,  there  was  a  friend,  the  son  of  a 
neighbor,  to  join  me  in  the  pastime.  We  led  our  flocks  to  the 
same  pasture,  and  partook  together  our  rustic  meal. 

3.  "  One  evening,  after  the  sheep  were  folded,  and  we  were 
al'  seated    leneatK  *.he  myrtle  which  shaded  our  cottage,  mi» 


082  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES. 

grandsire,  an  old  man,  was  telling  of  Marathon,  and  Leuctia; 
and  how,  in  ancient  times,  a  little  band  of  Spartans,  in  a  defile 
of  the  mountains,  had  withstood  a  whole  army.  I  did  not  know 
then  what  war  was ;  but  mj  cheeks  burned,  I  knew  not  why ; 
and  I  clasped  the  knees  of  that  venerable  man,  until  my  mother, 
parting  the  hair  from  off  my  forehead,  kissed  my  throbbing 
temples,  and  bade  me  go  to  rest,  and  think  no  more  of  those  old 
tales  and  savage  wars.  That  very  night  the  Romans  landed  on 
our  coast.  I  saw  the  breast  that  had  nourished  me,  trampled  by 
the  hoof  of  the  war-horse ;  the  bleeding  body  of  my  father  flung 
amidst  the  blazing  rafters  of  our  dwelling !  To-day  I  killed  a 
man  in  the  arena  j  and,  when  I  broke  his  helmet-clasps,  behold ! 
he  was  my  friend.  He  knew  me,  smiled  faintly,  gasped,  and 
died ; — the  same  sweet  smile  upon  his  lips  that  I  had  marked, 
when,  in  adventurous  boyhood,  we  scaled  the  lofty  cliff  to  pluck 
the  first  ripe  grapes,  and  bear  them  home  in  childish  triumph. 
I  told  the  praetor  that  the  dead  man  had  been  my  friend,  gener- 
ous and  brave ;  and  I  begged  that  I  might  bear  away  the  body, 
to  burn  it  on  a  funeral  pile,  and  mourn  over  its  ashes.  Ay ! 
upon  my  knees,  amid  the  dust  and  blood  of  the  arena,  I  begged 
that  poor  boon,  while  all  the  assembled  maids  and  matrons,  and 
the  holy  virgins  they  call  Vestals,  and  the  rabble,  shouted  in 
derision;  deeming  it  rare  sport,  forsooth,  to  see  Rome's  fiercest 
gladiator  turn  pale  and  tremble  at  the  sight  of  that  piece  of 
bleeding  clay ! 

4.  "  And  the  praetor  drew  back  as  I  were  pollution,  and 
sternly  said, — *  Let  the  carrion  rot ;  there  are  no  noble  men  but 
Romans !'  And  so,  fellow-gladiators,  must  you,  and  so  must  I, 
die  like  dogs.  O  Rome  !  Rome  !  thou  hast  been  a  tender  nurse 
to  me.  Ay !  thou  hast  given,  to  that  poor,  gentle,  timid  shep- 
herd lad,  who  never  knew  a  harsher  tone  than  a  flute-note, 
muscles  of  iron  and  a  heart  of  flint ;  taught  him  to  drive  the 
sword  through  plaited  mail  and  Hnks  of  rugged  brass,  and  warm 
it  in  the  marrow  of  his  foe ; — to  gaze  into  the  glaring  eye-balls 
of  the  fierce  ISIumidian  lion,  even  as  a  boy  upon  a  laughing  girl! 
And  he  shall  pay  thee  back,  until  the  yellow  Tiber  is  red  as 
frothing  wine,  and,  in  its  deepest  ooze,  thy  life-blood  lies 
•jurdled ! 


RHETORICAL    READER.  583 

5.  "Ye  stand  tiere  now  like  giants  as  ye  are  !  The  strength 
of  brass  is  in  your  toughened  sinews;  but  to-morrow  some 
Roman  Adonis,*  breathing  sweet  perfume  from  his  curly  locks, 
shall  with  his  lily  fingers  pat  your  red  brawn,  and  bet  his  sesterces 
upon  your  blood.  Hark  I  hear  ye  yon  lion  roaring  in  his  den  ? 
Tis  three  days  since  he  tasted  flesh ;  but  to-morrow  he  shall 
break  his  fast  upon  yours, — and  a  dainty  meal  for  him  ye  will 
be  !  If  ye  are  beasfSy  then  stand  here  like  fat  oxen,  waiting  for 
the  butcher's  knife  !  If  ye  are  men, — follow  me  !  Strike  down 
your  guard,  gain  the  mountain  passes,  and  there  do  bloody  work, 
as  did  your  sires  at  old  Thermopylae  ?  Is  Sparta  dead  ?  Is  the 
old  Grecian  spirit  frozen  in  your  veins,  that  you  do  crouch  and 
cower  like  a  belabored  hound  beneath  his  master's  lash  ?  0 
comrades  !  warriors  !  Thracians  ! — if  we  must  fight,  let  us  fight 
for  ourselves!  If  we  must  slaughter,  let  us  slaughter  our 
oppressors !  If  we  must  die,  let  it  be  under  the  clear  sky,  by 
the  bright  waters,  in  noble,  honorable  battle !" 


EXERCISE  CLXXXIII. 

Elizabeth  Oakes  Smith  was  born  near  Portland,  in  Maine.  At  the  early 
age  of  sixteen,  she  was  married  to  Seba  Smith,  author  (among  other  things) 
of  the  celebrated  "Letters  of  Major  Jack  Downing,"  Since  that  time  Mrs. 
Smith  has  given  herself  mostly  to  literature :  having  published,  in  1844, 
**The  Sinless  Child  and  Other  Poems,"  and,  since  that,  a  number  of  other 
works,  all  bearing  the  clearest  evidence  of  extraordinary  natural  power 
seconded  by  successful  culture.  The  following  piece  alone  would  be  sufficient 
to  establish  her  claims  to  distinction,  as  a  writer. 

THE  DROWNED  MARINER. 

ELIZABEia  CAKES  SUITS 
I. 

A  mariner  sat  in  the  shrouds  one  night, 

The  wind  was  piping  free ; 
Now  bright,  now  dimmed  was  the  moonlight  pale. 
And  the  phosphor  gleamed  in  the  wake  of  the  whale, 

As  it  floundered  in  the  sea ; 


*  Adonis  {a  rfJ'  nis)  was  a  favorite  of  the  goddess  Venus,  famed  foi 
his  beauty. 


584  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES. 

The  scud  was  flying  athwart  the  sky, 
The  gathering  winds  went  whistling  by, 
And  the  wave,  as  it  towered  then  fell  in  spray, 
Looked  an  emerald  wall  in  the  moonlight  ray. 

II. 

The  mariner  swayed  and  rocked  on  the  mast. 

But  the  tumult  pleased  him  well : 
Down  the  yawning  wave  his  eye  he  cast, 
And  the  monsters  watched,  as  they  hurried  past, 

Or  lightly  rose  and  fell, — 
For  their  broad,  damp  fins  were  under  the  tide, 
And  they  lashed,  as  they  passed  the  vessel's  side, 
And  their  filmy  eyes,  all  huge  and  grim, 
Glared  fiercely  up,  and  they  glared  at  him. 

III. 

Now  freshens  the  gale,  and  the  brave  ship  goes 

Like  an  uncurbed  steed  along  j 
A  sheet  of  flame  is  the  spray  she  throws, 
As  her  gallant  prow  the  water  plows ; 

But  the  ship  is  fleet  and  strong ; 
The  topsails  are  reefed,  and  the  sails  are  furled, 
And  onward  she  sweeps  o'er  the  watery  world. 
And  dippeth  her  spars  in  the  surging  flood ; 
But  there  cometh  no  chill  to  the  mariner's  blood. 

IV. 

Wildly  she  rocks,  but  he  swingeth  at  ease, 
And  holds  him  by  the  shroud ; 

And,  as  she  careens  to  the  crowding  breeze, 

The  gaping  deep  the  mariner  sees, 

And  the  surging  heareth  loud. 

Was  that  a  face,  looking  up  at  him 

With  its  pallid  cheek,  and  its  cold  eyes  dim  ? 

Did  it  beckon  him  down  ?     Did  it  call  his  name  J 

Now  rolleth  the  ship  the  way  whence  it  came. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  S8ft 

V. 

The  mariner  looked,  and  he  saw,  with  dread. 
A  face  he  knew  too  well  j 

And  the  cold  eyes  glared,  the  eyes  of  the  dead, 

And  its  long  hair  out  on  the  waves  was  spread- 
Was  there  a  tale  to  tell  ? 

The  stout  ship  rocked  with  a  reeling  speed, 

And  the  mariner  groaned,  as  well  he  need — 

For  ever  down,  as  she  plunged  on  her  side, 

The  dead  face  gleamed  from  the  briny  tide 

VI. 
Bethink  thee,  mariner,  well  of  the  past : 

A  voice  calls  loud  for  thee ; 
There's  a  stifled  prayer,  the  first,  the  last ; 
The  plunging  ship  on  her  beam  is  cast — 

Oh,  where  shall  thy  burial  be '{ 
Bethink  thee  of  oaths,  that  were  lightly  bpoken , 
Bethink  thee  of  vows,  that  were  lightly  broken ; 
Bethink  thee  of  all  that  is  dear  to  thee, 
For  thou  art  alone  on  the  raging  sea. 

VII. 
Alone  in  the  dark,  alone  on  the  wave 

To  buffet  the  storm  alone ; 
To  struggle  aghast  at  thy  watery  grave, 
To  struggle  and  feel  there  is  none  to  save ! 

God  shield  thee,  helpless  one ! 
The  stout  limbs  yield,  for  their  strength  is  past ', 
The  trembling  hands  on  the  deep  are  cast; 
The  white  brow  gleams  a  moment  more. 
Then  slowly  sinks — the  struggle  is  o'er. 

VIII 
Down,  down,  where  the  storm  is  hushed  to  sleep, 

Where  the  sea  its  dirge  shall  swell ; 
Where  the  amber-drops  for  thee  shall  weep. 
And  the  rose-lipped  shell  its  music  keep  j 
There  thou  shalt  slumber  well. 
25*  R 


DbO  SANDERS'     UNION    SERij^is. 

The  gem  and  the  pearl  lie  heaped  at  thy  side ; 
They  fell  from  the  neck  of  the  beautiful  bride, 
From  the  strong  man's  hand,  from  the  maiden's  brow, 
As  they  slowly  sunk  to  the  wave  below. 

IX. 

A  peopled  home  is  the  ocean-bed  j 

The  mother  and  child  are  there : 
The  fervent  youth  and  the  hoary  head, 
The  maid  with  her  floating  locks  outspread, 

The  babe  with  its  silken  hair : 
As  the  water  moveth  they  slightly  sway. 
And  the  tranquil  lights  on  their  features  play: 
And  there  is  each  cherished  and  beautiful  form, 
Away  from  decay,  and  away  from  the  storm. 


EXERCISE  CLXXXIV. 

CJe  )rqb  Crabbe,  the  poet,  was  born  in  Suffolk,  England,  December  24th, 
I7t>4,  and  died  at  Trowbridge,  in  Wiltshire,  February  3d,  1832.  He  wa« 
destined  for  the  medical  profession,  but  his  tastes  ultimately  carried  him  to 
that  of  literature.  Among  his  productions,  as  a  poet,  the  "Village"  and  the 
'*  Parish  Register"  are  justly  accounted  the  best.  In  the  delineation  of 
character,  in  minute  description  of  scenes  and  circumstances,  especially  those 
.n  humble  life,  he  is  severely  true  and  touching.  His  sympathies  lay  with 
the  poor,  the  friendless,  the  unfortunate,  and,  in  his  lines,  vice  and  wretched- 
ness ar«  pointed  in  colors  too  vivid  to  be  without  interest  to  the  dullest  mind. 
He  w»p,  ii  truth,  what  Byron  affirmed  of  him — "  nature's  sternest  painter, 
yet  tU«  best." 

PORTRAIT  OF  A  PEASANT. 

I. 

Next  to  these  ladies,  but  in  naught  allied, 
A  noble  peasant,  Isaac  Ashford,  died. 
Noble  he  was,  contemning  all  things  mean. 
His  truth  unquestioned  and  his  soul  serene: 
Of  no  man's  presence  Isaac  felt  afraid; 
At  no  man's  question  Isaac  looked  dismayed: 


RHETORICAL    READER.  587 

Shame  knew  him  not,  he  dreaded  no  disgrace  j 
Truth,  simple  truth,  was  written  in  his  face ; 
Fet  while  the  serious  thought  his  soul  approved, 
Cheerful  he  seemed,  and  gentleness  he  loved  j 
To  bliss  domestic  he  his  heart  resigned. 
And  with  the  firmest,  had  the  fondest  mind. 

II. 
Were  others  joyful,  he  looked  smiling  on. 
And  gave  allowance  where  he  needed  none ; 
Good  he  refused  with  future  ill  to  buy. 
Nor  knew  a  joy  that  caused  reflection's  sigh? 
A  friend  to  virtue,  his  unclouded  breast 
No  envy  stung,  no  jealousy  distressed : 
(Bane  of  the  poor !  it  wounds  their  weaker  mind 
To  miss  one  favor  which  their  neighbors  find ;) 
Yet  far  was  he  from  stoic-pride  removed ; 
He  felt  humanely,  and  he  warmly  lovoc; : 
I  marked  his  action  when  his  infant  died. 
And  his  old  neighbor  for  offense  was  tried ; 
The  still  tears,  stealing  down  that  furrowed  cheek, 
Spoke  pity  plainer  than  the  tongue  can  speak. 

III. 

If  pride  were  his,  'twas  not  their  vulgar  pride, 
Who,  in  their  base  contempt,  the  great  deride; 
Nor  pride  in  learning,  though  my  clerk  agreed, 
If  fate  should  call  him,  Ashford  might  succeed ; 
Nor  pride  in  rustic  skill,  although  we  knew 
None  his  superior,  and  his  equals  few : 
But,  if  that  spirit,  in  his  soul,  had  place, 
It  was  the  jealous  pride  that  shuns  disgrace ; 
A  pride  in  honest  fame,  by  virtue  gained. 
In  sturdy  boys  to  virtuous  labors  trained; 
Pride  in  the  power  that  guards  his  country's  coast, 
And  all  that  Englishmen  enjoy  and  boast; 
Pride  in  a  life  that  slander's  tongue  defied, 
In  fact,  a  noble  passion,  misnamed  pride 


588  SANDERS'  un!on  series. 


GRADUAL  APPROACHES  OF  AGE. 


Six  years  had  passed,  and  forty  ere  the  «ix, 
When  time  began  to  play  his  usual  tricks ; 
The  locks,  once  comely  in  a  virgin's  sight, — 
Locks  of  pure  brown,  displayed  the  encroaching  white; 
The  blood,  once  fervid,  now  to  cool  began. 
And  Time's  strong  pressure  to  subdue  the  man. 
I  rode  or  walked  as  I  was  wont  before. 
But  now  the  bounding  spirit  was  no  more ; 
A  moderate  pace  would  now  my  body  heat ; 
A  walk  of  moderate  length  distress  my  feet. 


i  snowed  my  stranger  guest  those  hills  sublime, 
But  said, — "  The  view  is  poor;  we  need  not  climb** 
At  a  friend's  mansion  I  began  to  dread 
The  cold  neat  parlor  and  the  gay  glazed  bed ; 
At  home  I  felt  a  more  decided  taste, 
And  must  have  all  things  in  my  order  placed. 
1  ceased  to  hunt ;  my  horses  pleased  me  less — 
My  dinner  more ;  I  learned  to  play  at  chess. 
I  took  my  dog  and  gun,  but  saw  the  brute 
Was  disappointed  that  I  did  not  slioot. 

III. 
My  morning  walks  I  now  could  bear  to  lose, 
And  blessed  the  shower  that  gave  mo  not  to  choosM , 
In  fact,  I  felt  a  languor  stealing  on ; 
The  active  arm,  the  agile  hand,  were  gone ; 
Small  daily  actions  into  habits  grew, 
And  new  dislike  to  forms  and  fashions  new. 
I  loved  my  trees  in  order  to  dispose ', 
I  numbered  peaches,  looked  how  stocks  arose ; 
Tolu  the  same  story  oft — in  short,  began  to  prose' 


RHETORICAL    REAlJER.  689 


EXERCISE  CLXXXV. 

Harriet  Martineau  was  born  in  Norwich,  England,  June  12th,  1802. 
Iler  early  education  was  liberal  and  thorough,  though  her  father's  circum- 
etarcea  were  far  from  being  affluent.  Afflicted  with  partial  deafness  from 
early  youth,  and  deprived  completely  of  the  sense  of  smell,  she  found  especial 
delight  in  the  practice  of  writing.  This  gave  her  a  facility  which  proved  of 
the  utmost  service,  when  afterwards  pecuniary  need  made  that  a  business, 
which  had  once  been  only  a  recreation.  Miss  Martineau  had  not  written 
long  for  the  public,  before  she  showed  that  she  had  talents  of  no  ordinary 
stamp.  She  has  written  on  almost  every  subject,  from  a  book  of  devotion  for 
the  young  to  a  philosophical  treatise  for  the  most  mature.  In  1834  she  sailed 
for  America,  and  made  an  extensive  tour  through  the  United  States.  The 
results  of  her  sojourn  with  us,  she  afterwards  gave  in  two  separate  works, 
which,  on  the  whole,  are  allowed  to  have  been  written  in  a  fair  and  candid 
spirit. 

TRUE  LOVE. 

HARRIET   MARTINEAU. 

1.  There  needs  no  other  proof  that  happiness  is  the  most 
wholesome  moral  atmosphere,  and  that  in  which  the  immortality 
of  man  is  destined  ultimately  to  thrive,  than  the  elevation  of 
soul,  the  religious  aspiration,  which  attends  the  first  assurance, 
the  first  sober  certainty  of  true  love.  There  is  much  of  this 
religious  aspiration  amidst  all  warmth  of  virtuous  afi'ections. 
There  is  a  vivid  love  of  God  in  the  child  that  lays  its  cheek 
against  the  cheek  of  its  mother,  and  clasps  its  arms  about  her 
ueck.  God  is  thanked  (perhaps,  unconsciously,)  for  the  bright- 
ness of  his  earth,  on  summer  evenings,  when  a  brother  and 
sister,  who  have  long  been  parted,  pour  out  their  heart-stofes  to 
each  other,  and  feel  theii  course  of  thought  brightening  as  i( 
runs. 

2.  When  the  agea  parent  hears  of  the  honors  his  chJdren 
have  won,  or  looks  round  upon  their  innocent  faces  as  the  glor^ 
of  his  decline,  his  mind  reverts  to  him  who,  in  them,  prescribed 
the  purpose  of  his  fife,  and  bestowed  its  grace.  But  religious 
as  is  the  mood  of  every  good  affection,  none  is  so  devotional  as 
that  of  love,  especially  so  called.  The  soul  is  then  the  very 
temple  of  adoration,  of  faith,  of  holy  purity,  of  heroism,  of 
charity.  At  such  a  moment  the  human  creature  shoots  up  into 
the  angel ;  there  is  nothing  on  eai  th  too  defiled  for  its  charity — 


J)90  SANDERS'    UNION    SERIES. 

nothing  in  hell  too  appalling  for  its  heroism — nothing  in  Heaven 
too  glorious  for  its  sympathy. 

3.  Strengthened,  sustained,  vivified  by  that  most  mysterious 
power,  union  with  another  spirit,  it  feels  itself  set  well  forth  on 
the  way  of  victory  over  evil,  sent  out  conquering  and  to  conquer. 
There  is  no  other  such  crisis  in  human  life  The  philosopher 
uif  y  r'xpericnce  uncontrollable  agitation  in  verifying  his  principle 
of  balancing  systems  of  worlds,  feeling,  perhaps,  as  if  he  actu- 
ally saw  the  creative  hand  in  the  act  of  sending  the  planets  forth 
,)n  their  everlasting  way  j  but  this  philosopher,  solitary  seraph 
as  he  may  be  regarded  amidst  a  myriad  of  men,  knows  at  such 
a  moment  no  emotions  so  divine  as  those  of  the  spirit  becoming 
conscious  that  it  is  beloved — be  it  the  peasant  girl  in  the  meadow, 
or  the  daughter  of  the  sage  reposing  in  her  father's  confidence, 
or  the  artisan  beside  his  loom,  or  the  man  of  letters  musing  by 
his  fireside. 

4.  The  warrior  about  to  strike  the  decisive  blow  for  the  lib- 
erties of  d  nation,  however  impressed  with  the  solemnity  of  the 
hour,  is  not  in  a  state  of  such  lofty  resolution  as  those  who,  by 
joining  hearts,  are  laying  their  joint  hands  on  the  whole  wide 
realm  of  futurity  for  their  own.  The  statesman  who,  in  the 
moment  of  success,  feels  that  an  entire  class  of  social  sins  and 
woes  is  annihilated  by  his  hand,  is  not  conscious  of  so  holy  and 
so  intimate  a  thankfulness  as  they  who  are  aware  that  their 
redemption  is  come  in  the  presence  of  a  new  and  sovereign 
afiection. 

5.  And  these  are  many — they  are  in  all  corners  of  every  land. 
The  statesman  is  the  leader  of  a  nation,  the  warrior  is  the  grace 
of  an  age,  the  philosopher  is  the  birth  of  a  thousand  years ;  but 
the  lover,  where  is  he  not?  Wherever  parents  look  round  upon 
their  children,  there  he  has  been — wherever  children  are  at  play 
together,  there  he  will  soon  be — wherever  there  are  roofs  under 
which  men  dwell,  wherever  there  is  an  atmosphere  vibrating 
with  human  voices,  there  is  the  lover,  and  there  is  his  lofty 
worship  going  on,  unspeakable,  but  revealed  in  the  brightness 
of  the  eye,  the  majesty  of  the  presence,  and  the  high  temper  of 
the  discourse. 


RHETORICAL    READER.  591 


EXERCISE  CLXXXVI. 

James  Gates  Percival  was  born  in  Berlin,  Connecticut,  September  15th 
1795,  and  died  in  Wisconsin,  May  2d,  1857.  He  was  but  fourteen  years  of 
age,  when  he  wrote  a  burlesque  poem  on  the  times,  said  to  have  considerable 
merit.  In  1820  he  published  a  volume  of  poems,  and  thereafter  continued  to 
write  and  publish  much,  both  in  prose  and  poetry,  till  the  time  (1843)  of  his 
last  publication,  entitled  "  The  Dream  of  a  Day  and  Other  Poems."  He  was 
a  man  of  large  and  general  culture,  especially  rich  in  classical  attainment; 
and,  as  a  poet,  without  a  superior,  perhaps,  in  the  gift  of  fancy,  coupled  with 
%  certain  strange  power  to  arrest  the  feelings  and  hold  the  reader  under  a 
sort  of  poetic  enchantment 

0,  HAD. I  THE  WINGS! 

JAS.  G.  PEBOITAL 


0,  had  I  the  wings  of  a  swallow,  I'd  fly 
Where  the  roses  are  blossoming  all  the  year  long, 
Where  the  landscape  is  always  a  feast  to  the  eye, 
And  the  bills  of  the  warblers  are  ever  in  song ! 
0,  then  I  would  fly  from  the  cold  and  the  snow, 
And  hie  to  the  land  of  the  orange  and  vine, 
And  carol  the  winter  away  in  the  glow, 
That  rolls  o'er  the  ever-green  bowers  of  the  line ! 

II. 

Indeed,  I  should  gloomily  steal  o'er  the  deep, 

Like  the  storm-loving  petrel,  that  skims  there,  alone , 

I  would  take  me  a  dear  little  martin  to  keep 

A  sociable  flight  to  the  tropical  zone  : 

How  cheerily,  wing  by  wing,  over  the  sea 

We  would  fly  from  tbe  dark  clouds  of  winter  away^ 

And  forever  our  song  and  our  twitter  should  be, 

"  To  the  land  where  the  year  is  eternally  gayV^ 

III. 

We  would  nestle  awhile  in  the  jessamine  bowers, 
And  take  up  our  lodge  in  the  crown  of  the  palm, 
And  live,  like  the  bee,  on  its  fruits  and  its  flowers. 
That  always  are  flowing  with  honey  and  balm ; 


592  SANDERS'     UNION    SERIES. 

And  there  we  would  stay,  till  the  winter  is  o'er, 
And  April  is  checkered  with  sunshine  and  rain, — 
0,  then  we  would  flit  from  that  far-distant  shore 
Over  island  and  wave  to  our  country  again. 

IV. 

How  light  we  would  skim,  where  the  billows  are  rolled 

Through  clusters  that  bend  with  the  cane  and  the  lime ; 

And  break  on  the  beaches,  in  surges  of  gold, 

When  morning  conies  forth  in  her  loveliest  prime : 

We  would  touch  for  awhile,  as  we  traversed  the  ocean, 

At  the  islands  that  echoed  to  Waller  and  Moore, 

And  winnow  our  wings  with  an  easier  motion 

Through  the  breath  of  the  cedar  that  blows  from  the  shore. 

V. 

And,  when  we  had  rested  our  wings,  and  had  fed 

On  the  sweetness  that  comes  from  the  ju/iiper  groves, 

By  the  spirit  of  home  and  of  infancy  led, 

We  would  hurry  again  to  the  land  of  our  loves; 

And,  when  from  the  breast  of  the  ocean  would  spring, 

Far  off  in  the  distance,  that  dear  native  shore, 

In  the  joy  of  our  hearts,  we  would  cheerily  sing, — 

"  No  land  is  so  lovely  when  winter  is  o'er  I" 


EXERCISE  CLXXXVII. 

James  Shekidan  Knowles,  a  British  dramatist,  was  bom  in  Cork,  Ireland, 
in  the  year  1784.  He  discovered  a  decided  taste  for  dramatic  pursuits  at  an 
very  early  age,  and,  in  its  development,  had  the  aid  of  some  of  the  best 
critics  of  the  day.  He  was  not  only  a  writer,  but  also  an  actor,  of  plays. 
Among  his  various  dramatic  pieces  is  the  play  of  William  Tell,  from  which 
thf-  following  dialogue  between  Tell  and  Gesler,  the  tyrant,  haa  been  ex- 
t^a:t3d.  in  later  life,  Mr.  Knovvles  became  a  minister  of  the  Baptist  dencm- 
iniiioii.    He  died,  November  29th,  1862,  at  Torquay,  England. 

"WiLiiAM  Tell  was  a  peasant,  born  near  Altorf,  in  Switzerland,  and  cele- 
brate! for  his  resistance  to  the  tyranny  of  Gesler,  an  Austrian  governor. 
This  Gesler  had  carried  his  insolent  sway  so  far  as  to  require  the  Swiss  to  un- 
cover their  heads  before  his  hat,  elevated  on  a  pole,  as  a  sign  of  Austrian  sove- 


RHETORICAL    READER.  593 

reignty,  of  which  he  was  the  representative.  Tell  refusing  to  Jo  this,  was 
condemned  by  the  brutal  governor  to  shoot  an  apple  from  the  head  of  his 
own  son.  Being  a  skillful  .  rcliei-,  he  did  this  without  injury  to  the  boy  j 
but  had  concealed  about  his  person  a  second  arrow  with  which  he  purposed 
to  shoot  the  tyrant  himself,  nad  he  been  so  unfortunate  as  to  miss  his  aim  in 
shooting  at  the  apple.  The  short  dialogue  below  shows  well  the  spirit  that 
animated  this  famous  defender  of  liberty. 

TELL  AND  GESLER. 

J.   SHERIDAN   KN0WU8. 

iresler.  Why  speak'st  thou  not  ? 

Tell.  For  wonder. 

Ges    Wonder? 

Tell.  Yes. 
That  thou  shouldst  seem  a  man. 

Ges.  What  should  I  seem  ? 

Tell.  A  monster ! 

Ges.  Ha  !     Beware — Think  on  thy  chains. 

Tell.  Though  they  were  doubled,  and  did  weigh  me  dowu, 
Prostrate  to  earth,  methinks  I  could  rise  up 
Erect,  with  nothing  but  the  honest  pride 
Of  telling  thee,  usurper,  to  the  teeth, 
Thou  art  a  monster !     Think  upon  my  chains  I 
Show  me  the  link  of  them,  which,  could  it  speak, 
Would  give  its  evidence  against  my  word. 
Think  on  my  chains  !     Think  on  my  chains  I 
How  came  they  on  me  ? 

Ges.  Darest  thou  question  me  ? 

Tell.  Darest  thou  answer  ? 

Ges.  Do  I  hear  ? 

Tell.  Thou  dost. 

Ges.  Beware  my  vengeance. 

Tell.  Can  it  more  than  kill  ? 

Ges.  Enough — it  can  do  that. 

Tell.  No — not  enough  : 
[t  can  not  take  away  the  grace  of  life, 
Its  comeliness  of  look  that  virtue  gives, 
Its  port  erect  with  consciousness  of  trutL 
Its  rich  attire  of  honorable  deeds, 
Its  fair  report,  that's  rife  on  good  men^s  tongues: 

2P 


594  SANDERS'     UNION     SERIES. 

It  can  not  lay  its  hands  on  these,  no  more 
Than  it  cau  pluck  his  brightness  from  the  sun, 
Or,  with  polluted  finger,  tarnish  it. 

Ges.  But  it  can  make  thee  writhe. 

Tell.  It  may. 

Ges.  And  groan. 

Tell   It  may ;  and  I  may  cry, 
Go  on,  though  it  should  make  me  groan  again. 

Ges.  Whence  comest  thou  ? 

Tell.  From  the  mountains.     Wouldst  thou  learn 
What  news  from  them  ? 

Ges.  Canst  tell  me  any  ? 

Tell.  Ay: 
They  watch  no  more  the  avalanche. 

Ges.  Why  so  ? 

Tell.  Because  they  look  for  thee.     The  hurricane 
Comes  unawares  upon  them ;  from  its  bed 
The  torrent  breaks,  and  finds  them  in  its  track. 

Ges.  What  do  they  then  ? 

Tell.  Thank  Heaven  it  is  not  thou  ! 
Thou  hast  perverted  nature  in  them.     The  earth 
Presents  her  fruits  to  them,  and  is  not  thanked ; 
The  harvest  sun  is  constant,  and  they  scarce 
Return  his  smile ;  their  flocks  and  herds  increase, 
And  they  look  on  as  men  who  count  a  loss ; 
They  hear  of  thriving  children  born  to  them. 
And  never  shake  the  teller  by  the  hand  j 
While  those  they  have,  they  see  grow  up  and  flourish, 
And  think  as  little  of  caressing  them, 
As  they  were  things  a  deadly  plague  had  smit. 
There's  not  a  blessing  Heaven  vouchsafes  them,  but 
Th^  thought  of  thee  doth  wither  to  a  curse, 
As  something  they  must  lose,  and  richer  were 
To  lack. 

Ges.  That's  right !  I'd  have  them  like  their  hills, 
That  nevei  smile,  though  wanton  summer  tempt 
Them  e'er  so  much. 


RHETORICAL    READER  5ff6 


Tell.  But  they  do  sometimes  smile. 

Ges.   Ay  ! — when  is  that  ? 

Tell.  When  they  do  talk  of  vengeance. 

Ges.  Vengeance?     Dare 
They  talk  of  that  ? 

Tell.  Ay,  and  expect  it,  too. 

Ges    From  whence  ? 

Tell.  From  Heaven  I 

Ges.  From  Heaven '( 

Tell    And  the  true  hands 
Are  lifted  up  to  it,  on  every  hill. 
For  iustice  on  thee. 


EXERCISE  CLXXXVIII. 

An  a'  cke  on  is  the  name  of  a  Greek  poet  that  flourished  about  five  hun- 
dred and  fifty  years  before  Christ.  He  was  born  at  Teos,  a  city  on  the  coast 
of  Ionia,  in  Asia  Minor.  We  know  little  about  his  personal  history;  but  hia 
character — that  of  a,  vain  voluptuary — is  suflSciently  shown  in  bis  writings. 
Yet  his  poems  discover  a  grace,  delicacy,  and  general  finish,  that  might  well 
adorn  a  far  better  character  in  the  writer,  and  far  higher  themes  than  those 
on  which  he  has  written.  The  following  is  a  fair  specimen  of  his  style,  so 
far  as  it  is  susceptible  of  an  English  dress. 

CUPID'S  ADVENTURE. 

ANACKEON  {tramloied  by  moorx*). 
I. 

'Twas  noon  of  night,  when  round  the  pole 
The  sullen  Bear  is  seen  to  roll ; 
And  mortals,  wearied  with  the  day, 
Are  slumbering  all  their  cares  away : 
An  infant,  at  that  dreary  hour. 
Came  weeping  to  my  silent  bower, 
And  waked  me  with  a  piteous  prayer, 
To  save  him  from  the  midnight  air ! 


*  See  Exercise  CXXV 


5S6  SANDERS'     UNION    SERIES. 

II. 

"  And  who  art  thou,"  I  waking  cry, 
"  That  bid'st  my  blissful  visions  fly  ?" 
"  0  gentle  sire  !"  the  infant  said, 
"  In  pity  take  me  to  thy  shed ; 
Nor  fear  deceit ;  a  lonely  child 
I  wander  o'er  the  gloomy  wild. 
Chill  drops  the  rain,  and  not  a  ray 
Illumes  the  drear  and  misty  way  I" 

III. 
I  hear  the  baby's  tale  of  woe  j 
I  hear  the  bitter  night  winds  blow  j 
And,  sighing  for  his  piteous  fate, 
i  trimmed  my  lamp,  and  oped  the  gat©. 
'Twas  Love  !  the  little  wandering  sprite^ 
His  pinions  sparkled  through  the  night  I 
I  knew  him  by  his  bow  and  dart; 
T  knew  him  by  my  fluttering  heart  I 

IV. 

I  take  him  in,  and  fondly  raise 
The  dying  embers'  cheering  blaze; 
Press  from  his  dank  and  clinging  hair 
The  crystals  of  the  freezing  air. 
And,  in  my  hand  and  bosom,  hold 
His  little  fingers  thrilling  cold. 
And  now  the  embers'  genial  ray 
Had  warmed  his  anxious  fears  away. 

y. 

"  I  pray  thee,''  said  the  wanton  child, 
(My  bosom  trembled  as  he  smiled,) 
*'  I  pray  thee  let  me  try  my  bow ; 
For  through  the  rain  I've  wandered  so, 
That  much  I  fear  the  ceaseless  shower 
Has  injured  its  elastic  power." 


RHETORICAL    READER.  591 

VI. 

The  fatal  bow  the  urchin  drew ; 
Swift  from  the  string  the  arrow  flew ; 
Oh  !  swift  it  flew  as  glancing  flame, 
And  to  my  very  soul  it  came ! 
"  Fare  thee  well,"  I  heard  him  say, 
As  laughing  wild  he  winged  away ; 
"  Fare  thee  well,  for  now  I  know 
The  rain  has  not  relaxed  my  bow ; 
It  still  can  send  a  maddening  dart, 
As  thou  shalt  own  with  all  thy  heart  I" 


EXERCISE  CLXXXIX. 
GOD    EVERYWHERE. 


HTjeH  HUTTOK 


I. 

Oh  !  show  me  where  is  He, 

The  high  and  holy  One, 

To  whom  thou  bend'st  the  knee, 

And  pray'st, — "  2%  will  be  done  !" 

I  hear  thy  song  of  praise. 

And,  lo  !  no  form  is  near  : 

Thine  eyes  I  see  thee  raise, 

But  where  doth  Grod  appear  ? 
Oh  I  teach  me  who  is  God,  and  where  His  glories  shine, 
That  I  may  kneel  and  pray,  and  call  thy  Father  mine 

II. 
Gaze  on  that  arch  above  j 
The  glittering  vault  admire. 
Who  taught  those  orbs  to  move  ? 
Who  lit  their  ceaseless  fire  ? 
Who  guides  the  moon  to  run 
In  silence  through  the  skies  ? 
Who  bids  that  dawning  sun 
In  strength  and  beauty  rise  ? 


598  SANDERS'     UNION     SERIES. 

There  view  immensity  !  behold  !  my  God  is  there; 
The  sun,  the  moon,  the  stars,  His  majesty  declare 

III. 

8ee  where  the  mountains  rise ; 

Where  thundering  torrents  foam ; 

Where,  vailed  in  towering  skies, 

The  eagle  makes  his  home ; 

Where  savage  Nature  dwells, 

My  God  is  present  too ; 

Through  all  her  wildest  dells, 

His  footsteps  I  pursue  j 
He  reared  those  giant  cliffs,  supplies  that  dashing  stream, 
Provides  the  daily  food  which  stills  the  wild  bird's  scream. 

IV. 

Look  on  that  world  of  waves. 

Where  finny  nations  glide ; 

Within  whose  deep,  dark  caves 

The  ocean  monsters  hide  : 

His  power  is  sovereign  there, 

To  raise,  to  quell  the  storm ; 

The  depths  his  bounty  share, 
vVhere  sport  the  scaly  swarm  : 
Tempest  and  calms  obey  the  same  almighty  voice 
Which  rules  the  earth  and  skies,  and  bids  far  worid»  rejoicf^- 


No  human  thoughts  can  soar 

Beyond  Her  boundless  might ; 

He  swells  the  thunder's  roar. 

He  spreads  the  wings  of  night. 

Oh  !  praise  His  works  divine  ! 

Bow  down  thy  soul  in  prayer ; 

Nor  ask  for  other  sign 

That  God  is  everywhere: 
The  viewless  Spirit !  He — immortal,  holy,  blesc : 
Oh  !  worship  Him  in  faith,  and  find  eternal  rest  1 


BHETOBICAL     BE4DEB.  599 


EXERCISE  OXC, 

Ekjhaud  Chevemx  Trench  is  a  clergyman  of  the  English  Church ;  being, 
ftlso,  examining  chaplain  to  the  Bishop  of  Oxford,  and  Professor  of  Divinity 
in  King's  College,  London.  He  has  published,  among  other  things,  a  volume 
entitled  *'  Lessons  in  Proverbs,"  and  "  The  Study  of  Words ;"  from  the  latter 
of  which,  abounding,  as  it  does,  in  useful  instruction,  we  take  the  following 
•nterestiiig  extract. 

FOSSIL  POETRY. 

TBENCH. 

1 .  A  popular  American  author  has  somewhere  characterized 
language  as  ^'fossil  poetry," — evidently  meaning  that  just  as  in 
some  fossil,  curious  and  beautiful  shapes  of  vegetable  or  animal  life 
are  permanently  bound  up  with  the  stone,  and  rescued  from  that 
perishing  which  would  otherwise  have  been  theirs — so,  in  words, 
are  beautiful  thoughts  and  images, — the  imagination  and  feeling 
of  past  ages,  preserved  and  made  safe  forever. 

2.  Jjanguage,  then,  is  fossil  poetry;  in  other  words,  we  are 
not  to  look  for  the  poetry  which  a  people  may  possess,  only  in  its 
poems,  or  its  poetical  customs,  traditions,  and  beliefs.  Many  a 
single  word,  also,  is  itself  a  concentrated  poem,  having  stores  of 
poetical  thought  and  imagery  laid  up  in  it.  Examine  it,  and  it 
will  be  found  to  rest  on  some  deep  analogy  of  things  natural 
and  things  spiritual ;  bringing  those  to  illustrate  and  to  give  an 
abiding  form  and  body  to  these. 

3.  '*  Iliads  without  a  Homer,"*  some  one  has  called,  with  a 
little  exaggeration,  the  beautiful  but  anonymous  ballad  poetry 
of  Spain.  One  may  be  permitted,  perhaps,  to  push  the  exaggera- 
tion a  little  further  in  the  same  direction,  and  to  apply  the  phrase 
cot  merely  to  a  ballad,  but  to  a  word.  Let  me  illustrate  that 
which  I  have  been  here  saying  somewhat  more  at  length  by  the 
«r  jrd  "  tribulation." 

4.  We  all  know,  in  a  general  way,  that  this  word,  which 
{  Cf  urs  not  seldom  in  Scripture  and  in  the  Liturgy,  means  affliction, 
sorrow,  anguish ;  but  it  is  quite  worth  our  while  to  know  how  it 
means  this,  and  to  question  the  word  a  little  closer.     Iv  is  de- 


*  See  Notes  on  Exercise  CLXXVL 


600  SANDERS'     UNION    SERIES. 

rived  from  the  Latin  "  trihulum" — which  was  the  thrashing 
instrument  or  roller,  whereby  the  Roman  husbandman  separated 
the  corn  from  the  husks ;  and  "  trihulatio,^^  in  its  primary 
significance,  was  the  act  of  making  this  separation. 

5.  But  some  Latin  writer  of  the  Christian  church  appropriated 
the  word  and  image  for  the  setting  forth  of  a  higher  truth ;  and 
sorrow,  distress,  and  adversity,  being  the  appointed  means  for 
the  separating,  in  men,  of  their  chaflf  from  their  wheat,  of  what- 
iver,  in  them,  was  light  and  trivial  and  poor  from  the  solid  and 
tlie  true,  therefore,  he  called  these  sorrows  and  griefs  "  tribula- 
tions" thrashings,  that  is,  of  the  inner  spiritual  man,  without 
which  there  could  be  no  fitting  him  for  the  Heavenly  garner. 

6.  Now,  in  proof  of  what  I  have  just  said,  namely,  that 
a  single  word  is  often  a  concentrated  poem,  a  little  grain  of  gold 
capable  of  being  beaten  out  into  a  broad  extent  of  gold-leaf,  I 
will  quote,  in  reference  to  this  very  word  "  tribulation,"  a  grace- 
ful composition  by  an  early  English  poet,  which,  you  will  at 
once  perceive,  is  all  wrapped  up  in  this  word : — 

7.  Till  from  the  straw,  the  flail,  the  corn  doth  beat, 
Until  the  chaflf  be  purged  from  the  wheat, 
Yea,  till  the  mill  the  grains  in  pieces  tear, 
The  richness  of  the  flour  will  scarce  appear. 
So,  till  men's  persons  great  afflictions  touch, 
If  worth  be  found,  their  worth  is  not  so  much ; 
Because,  like  wheat  in  straw,  they  have  not  yet 
That  value  which,  in  thrashing,  they  may  get. 
For  till  the  bruising  flails  of  God's  corrections 
Have  thrashed  out  of  us  our  vain  affections ; 
Till  those  corruptions  which  do  misbecome  U8 
Are,  by  Thy  sacred  Spirit,  winnowed  from  ub  ; 
Until  from  us  the  straw  of  worldly  treasures, 
Till  all  the  dusty  chaff  of  empty  pleasures, 
Yea,  till  His  flail  upon  us  He  doth  lay, 
To  thrash  the  husk  of  this  our  flesh  away; 
And  leave  the  soul  uncovered ;  nay,  yet  more. 
Till  God  shall  make  our  very  spirit  poor, 
We  shall  not  up  to  highest  wealth  aspire ; 
But  thtn  we  shall ;  and  that  is  my  desire." 

THE    END. 


14  DAY  USE 

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